


Finality: A Sherlock Holmes 2009 fanfiction

by LAAdolf



Category: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 118,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LAAdolf/pseuds/LAAdolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fanfiction exploration of an "alternative reality" to the canon Sherlock Holmes adventures, The Final Problem and the Adventure of the Empty House. The first famously killed off Sherlock Holmes, throwing all of London into mourning and making Arthur Conan Doyle the recipient of much hate mail. Still he held out, keeping his most famous creation "dead" it took him 10 years to relent. When he did resurrect Holmes, it was in the Adventure of the Empty House, and only three years of "Holmes universe" time had been lost--the great "hiatus" as Sherlockians refer to it.</p><p>That in itself is a time honored pastiche tradition, the talented Nicholas Meyer beautifully used an "alternate reality" for the hiatus in his The Seven Percent Solution, a wonderful novel and great film--now almost impossible to find, as it is not in print in DVD.</p><p>This story works best with some familiarity with canon. It hypothesizes that the published accounts were in reality, "unreliable narrative" and offers alternative scenes--using the SH09 film universe, already an reimagining, though very much in the spirit of canon and using many lines from the same-- events, presences and absences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Finality**

**(A Sequel to Fragility)**

**By L.A. Adolf**

**Prologue:**

** _Leukerbad, Switzerland_ **

_ Late May, seven months after the conclusion  
_ _Of the Case of the Abominable Lord Blackwood_

** _From the Diary of John H. Watson:_ **

 _The bullet wound, while far from minor, was the least of the matter.  Shot from a distance by a rifle, the projectile had fenestrated through and through, resulting in, paradoxically, less damage that it would have had it lodged in bone and tissue…_

** _Note: _ ** _Holmes had pointed that remarkable detail out to me in the early days of our association, when he still haunted the dissecting rooms with some regularity and I, enthralled by his methods, had been a willing pupil of the macabre. _

**{why is this notation smeared and stained…oh, exhaustion and worry play tricks with me even as I write this, tears are falling onto the page that I’m not even cognizant of shedding…}**

_The wound, debrided surgically before I had ever arrived, was in fact, healing well. At least as well as could be expected in one so worn and run down, so obviously already quite ill before its infliction. _

_Of larger concern had been and continued to be the complete and total collapse, both physical and mental that had occurred almost simultaneously with the gunshot wound, the genesis  of which was well established before the physical mishap.  Said collapse had resulted in a brain fever which had proved systemic and which now threatened the life of the patient most immediately.  _

_Switzerland boasts some of the most advanced medical thought of our time and the care given had been exemplary, so much so that there seemed little to do once I arrived.  Control the fever which had become chronic, attempt to force fluid and sustenance into a body already wasted and wanting from overwork before the advent of illness… _

 **{I could have prevented this!  Perhaps affected the outcome before his ever having left London.  Why did I not see this when he came to me in the night, afraid of air guns, full of dark tales and convoluted plans to lure Moriarty out into the open?}**

** ** _… Calm an agitated patient so far into the clutches of prolonged delirium that he recognized no one in the immediate vicinity, calling out repeatedly and plaintively for those who already sat vigil at his bedside._

 **{Why did I not see that his request for my assistance was a mere double blind for what he really intended, that the promise to meet in Newhaven was a sham for a departure by privately contracted ship from another port entirely.}**

John Watson looked up from his notebook, ignoring the crick in his neck and the cramping in fingers that held his pen too tightly, his gaze deliberately skittering across details of the sickroom before settling on the figure in the bed.

**{Why was it not I who was there at Reichenbach Falls--on the Continent at all for that matter --when this long building situation came to its dramatic and tragic head?}** ** **

Sherlock Holmes, gaunt with injury and illness, was peaceful for a change, profoundly unconscious in a way that left the observer hoping that perhaps, finally, a healing rest was being obtained. 

It was largely, Watson mused, bitterly, a pretty conceit. Nothing but a quiet phase in course of illness marked by remitting fever, waxing and waning delirium and a steady, implacable deterioration. 

_“You should be prepared,” _they’d told him, his Swiss colleagues, with their sympathetic faces and understanding voices in lightly accented English, _“his system cannot tolerate this strain for too much longer.  It is only a matter of time now. You may want to consider saying your farewells, letting nature take its course…”_ 

John Watson threw his notebook across the room, broke his pen in half, mindless of the spots of dark ink that erupted from the fountain and stained clothing and bedding. 

He jumped up, perched on the edge of Holmes’s sick bed, leaned close, and grasped the wan face between two hands which were exquisite in their gentleness in marked contrast to the violence in the voice that broke the stillness of the sickroom.

“I. Will. Not. Say. Goodbye!  Holmes, do you hear me?  Damn it you **will **hear me!!  You will not die! I will not allow it. I expect better of you, the best and wisest man I have ever known! 

Watson panted, focusing all his energy on willing the eyelids, bruised looking bits of onionskin thin above sunken and dark hued eye sockets, to open.

“I am here, Holmes.  Look at me.  Open your eyes and look at me.”

Sobbing, Watson laid his cheek to the fevered forehead for a moment, willing himself to find the reserves of strength to put the force of his conviction into his words.  “I am here.  I love you.  And I will NOT. Let. You. Go.”

The barest of movement, eyelashes fluttering against the skin of his jaw. 

Watson reared back a few inches, loathe to relinquish that magical bit of response, but eyes hungry for proof that it was more than involuntary muscle spasm.

The brown eyes were but tiny slits in that ghastly, pale face, but they held a small degree of what might have been recognition, and the voice, heard in nothing but mindless raving for so many weeks, seemed at least a passable spectre of its usual self. 

“W-Watson?”

*** 

 

**Chapter 1:  **

**To Catch the Conscience of the King**

 

_Mycroft Holmes:_

The occasion of the marriage of John Hamish Watson to Miss Mary Morstan, which I attended in the company of my younger brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was a solemn affair, less in the mode of a celebration and more in the tone of a wake if not a funeral.

My sibling could hardly be considered at fault for the mood of the proceedings, for he was in fine fettle, charming as only he could be when he set his mind to it, leading the toasts to the new couple and even serenading the newlyweds on his violin after the ceremony proper. He even commandeered his dear friend’s mother in law for a spirited reel about the dance floor at the post nuptial fete. 

He was everything that was proper, solicitous and comradely; remarkable really, given his own feelings about Watson and the circumstances swirling about his own safety at that time.

Moriarty, feeling the heat of my brother’s dogged pursuit had responded by setting any number of his thugs against his enemy with deadly intent. My sibling had experienced several close escapes in the weeks before and after his former fellow lodger’s marriage. And Sherlock being Sherlock he quite seemed to thrive on the excitement and danger. 

My nerves, on the other hand, were close to being shot clear through--and I do pride myself on being a man of imperturbable sensibilities. 

I had, through my influence in the corridors of power, and thereby the new Home Secretary, managed to get Constable Clark assigned to my brother on an on-going basis. The move, though personal, bore with it some official justifiability. Moriarty and his minions were perceived as a potential public threat in the wake of the Blackwood affair, and the circumstance of the missing piece to his infernal machine was of prime interest to the government. 

Clark was officially a liaison between my brother and Scotland Yard in the Moriarty matter, for my purposes the attempts on Sherlock’s life had necessitated the drafting of Clark, as replacement for the stalwart Watson. At least in the sense of an able bodied, intelligent assistant in investigations, a strong fighting arm and covert bodyguard. 

Clark had proved himself invaluable during the Blackwood case, saving Sherlock’s reputation and life more than once during the course of the pursuit of the nefarious Lord.  He was a hard working, dependable soul with more intelligence than any five other Yarders put together.  That my brother genuinely liked Clark and thought well of his abilities, was an added bonus. 

But of course, no one could truly replace the good doctor in other respects. Quite apart from whatever private feelings the two might have for each other, the loss of his influence on the rougher aspects of Sherlock’s personality and the gravitational properties that kept my brother centered was keenly felt 

Where Watson had helped keep my brother’s eccentricities from overwhelming his sanity, it almost seemed that his removal from the intimacy of Sherlock’s daily life removed all the stops.

 My brother, it is true, had never been particularly assiduous in his concern for his own safety. After Watson’s marriage, he became markedly less so.  He also set himself a punishing lifestyle, cramming every waking hour with --if not the Moriarty case, then any and every other matter, no matter how trifling, that would keep his attention focused and his mind engaged.  He took on ever larger and more fearsome opponents at the Punchbowl. Spent altogether too much time, in disguise and out, haunting the worst possible areas of London and its outliers, and less in the pursuit of clues than in forms of physical punishment. 

And worse, seemed to take an almost fiendish delight in drawing Moriarty’s henchman out and upon his trail. 

I had a physician --not Watson out of consideration for the man’s newlywed state and his own equilibrium --on a permanent retainer to help patch my brother back up again and again. Suffice to say that the man had a leg up on an early retirement by the spring following the events of the Blackwood case.

Things were drawing to a head with the Moriarty case in late April of that year. Sherlock had rather masterfully spun a web that would shortly ensnare not only Moriarty, but his entire organization. It wanted only a few more days and a few more details, and the case would reach a triumphal conclusion. 

It was then, that word came to us, that the Professor was, as cowards are ultimately wont to do, about to abandon his fellows and make his escape to the Continent, possibly to seek asylum among the secretive and neutral Swiss. 

So it was that a plan, dangerous and daring, was born, and the end of the Napoleon of crime was begun. 

***


	2. When First We Practice to Deceive

****

**Finality**

**Chapter 2:**

**When First We Practice to Deceive**

L.A. Adolf

　

I am neither constitutionally nor temperamentally suited to lurking about backyard fences or idling in alleyways, preferring the comforts of my club, my apartments, my Whitehall office to the vagaries of the London landscape.

However, with Clark making preparations in the hire of a private packet to Dieppe, it was up to me this spring evening, to collect and protect my brother until such a time as our plan could be implemented in full.

I found my sibling, near the fence at the rear of the Watson property which he had scrambled over not five minutes before, taking his leave of his former fellow lodger’s home in a fashion appropriate to the very much endangered man that in that moment in time, he was.

He stood, behind the cover of the fence, gazing, eyes large and dark in the moonlight up at a window in which Watson could be seen. The doctor seemed alternately busy at packing preparations, and peering out into the darkness, as if hoping to catch a small glance of Sherlock, and know that he was not pursued. The lighting in the room made any view of the darkened back garden impossible of course. But Watson had never shied away from the impossible, his devotion and sacrifice for my brother’s sake over the course of so many years certainly more than proved that.

"I wouldn’t use him so." Sherlock said to me, turning away at last from the figure silhouetted in the upstairs window. "You must promise me that he will come to no harm. I couldn’t bear it if he was hurt, Mycroft, playing at decoys."

I looked levelly at my brother. I knew that he wished nothing more than to have Watson at his side as the pursuit of Moriarty began in earnest, would have, if he could, been plain spoken in his request for Watson’s assistance, enlisting him to travel where the evil Professor lead and stand as his good right arm through whatever might come.

It was a mark of the change in my brother’s attitude since the explosion at the wharf in Nine Elms and one of the final steps in his transformation from selfish narcissist to altruistic protector. It was also significant landmark in what was ultimately, one of the last steps in letting go completely--that instead, he made the love of his life promise to follow a course that unwittingly would lead him far out of the thick of the action. There would be some peril, if the plan proceeded as it was conceived, but at the end of it, Watson would be left, safe, in London, while my brother and Clark took all the risks and followed the course of greatest jeopardy.

Watson, when he realized the deception, would be furious, railing at my brother for once again leaving him in total ignorance of the real course of action. It would by then, be far too late, and perhaps that anger would make permanent the breach that Sherlock was so willing to impose between them.

I did not understand that last, not as fully as a man of my insight and life long knowledge of my brother should have. I did not quite fathom, being so careful of close connections in my own life --my sibling was quite more than enough for me to deal with on that front-- why a shift to a more casual set of relations between them was not possible in his ken.

I did not, of course, fully understand the depths of his feelings of culpability in that incident of the Blackwood case quite as yet. That would come--sadly-- later.

"He will at no time be unaccompanied or unprotected, Sherlock. You have some experience of the professionalism and competence of my network of agents. He will be as safe on the trip to Newhaven as he would be in his wife’s parlour, I promise you, Brother."

Sherlock nodded his assent, and turned to look once more--a lingering look of what could only be unabashedly termed undying love -- at Watson profiled through his window. And then together we turned and made our way to another wharf along the Thames and our pursuit began.

*

Doctor Watson stood, alternately with mouth agape, then pulled into a stern and unforgiving line, as he read the letter in his hands that shook with barely suppressed rage.

It was unmistakably in Sherlock Holmes’s hand.

"My Dearest Watson,

"I hope that someday you will be able to find it within your heart to forgive me for yet another deception at your expense in rather too long a line of them.

"The situation with Moriarty has taken such a turn as necessitates an elaborate deception, of which I knowingly have made you a part. It is not any reflection on you or your abilities that circumstances dictated that I not fully disclose the proposed course of assistance that I placed before you that last evening. It was vital to our objectives that your haste and sense of purpose appear in no way feigned to the cunning eyes that would be tracking your movement.

"I but wish I could be there, able to take your hand and thank you for your always devoted and able bodied assistance, but as you read this I will be well on my way, mere hours behind the Napoleon of Crime himself in his flight to the Continent.

"I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence. Thus successful, I would cheerfully bring my own career as a consulting detective to a conclusion and retire, content, to a more bucolic existence somewhere outside London.

"You have your Mary, and your now thriving practice--undisturbed now as it once was not --by the exigencies of the macabre cases at hand. Return to them, my dearest one, and if you can find it in your heart, forgive me one more time.

"I am as ever,

"Very sincerely yours,

"Sherlock Holmes"

　

***


	3. Leave oh leave the light of Hope behind

** **

**Finality:**

**

Chapter 3: Leave oh leave the light of Hope behind

**

　

L.A. Adolf

　

__

_**Mid Channel**_

_Clark:_

Mr. Mycroft Holmes set me upon the not unenviable task of bidding his brother come to dinner.

It was not a grand repast, sandwiches and coffee in the small galley of the swift mail packet upon which we’d secured passage to the Continent, but we both knew it had been too long since any substantial amount of sustenance had been taken in by Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

That was not an unusual set of circumstances as the good Doctor Watson could tell us --to hear him tell it, he’d spent fully half of his association with his friend getting him to eat, drink and keep regular habits of exercise. The other half he’d spent trying to preserve the great detective’s life from outward perils.

It was to our great regret, that Dr. Watson was not in our number, not only for the welcome addition of a well armed and able man of action to what was likely to become a nasty, dangerous chase. But also because, with Watson at his side, Sherlock Holmes was invincible.

Without him, he was oddly vulnerable. And completely bereft.

Since being assigned --to _my_ great good fortune and edification -- to assist Mr. Holmes I had been struck by the subtle changes in the man.

Ever since that dark night, some months ago, the very day that Lord Henry Blackwood met his fate at the hands of Providence, there had been a resignation about Mr. Holmes that was very disquieting. He had never been too very concerned with his personal self and safety it was true, but then Dr Watson had been there to attend to those matters. Mr. Holmes had at least _cared_ then, on some deep level, because John Watson _cared_ and that meant there was a tangible reason to go on with the business of living. Now that he’d convinced himself otherwise…

Mr. Holmes stood, as I approached, at the prow of the boat, eyes not fixed on our destination, but rather, on England which lay behind us, his back to the direction of travel. With another man I might have concluded that he did so as a windbreak. But time spent with a master of observation and deduction had somewhat improved my own faculties.

I’d seen the look in those eyes before. Long ago, when I’d been but a lad. After my father was killed, my mother’d had that look in her eyes in the days, weeks and years after she lost him, until her own death, only two years later. I didn’t know what it was then, but I do now.

It is the look of heartbreak. And never you mind what the scientists and philosophers may say, that a person cannot die of heartbreak. They can and do, every day. I’d witnessed it firsthand.

Resolute, I came to stand beside Sherlock Holmes, and though he dreaded being touched, I put a hand on his arm.

“Come, Mr. Holmes, it is past time you ate something.”

Sad brown eyes turned to me, and words began to form, “Clarky, I’m not…”

“None of that, sir.” I said firmly, putting a hand between his shoulder blades and urging him toward the warmth and comfort of the galley below. “Dr. Watson would insist, and so do I.”

He gave a humorless chuckle that to some ears, might have seemed more like a half suppressed sob, but did as I bid.

And that in itself was more disturbing than if he’d stood his ground. Sherlock Holmes without fighting spirit, no matter how often it was misdirected, did not seem Sherlock Holmes at all.

**

Because he was a gentleman, Dr. John Watson gave the impression of affability and tolerance on his return trip to London. The rage that burned in the noble breast of the Afghan War veteran found no outward expression, save, perhaps, in the occasional clenching of his hands into fists, and a steely glint in blue eyes that were more often, kind and forgiving.

The young Irregular assigned by Mr. Sherlock Holmes as the good doctor’s shadow, knew his charge well enough to give him the silence and wide berth he needed to maintain his fiction of equanimity. Since the boy had handed that letter to the doctor, watched the reaction to words he could not even read himself, he had wondered at their effect. So seldom was it that his employer’s partner was anything less than genial, it seemed the better part of self preservation, though he knew Dr. Watson would do him no harm, no matter how out of control his temperament might be.

Mr. Mycroft’s agent’s were the lucky ones, they had a distance and anonymity, they hadn’t known the doctor and detective in better days. Before the doctor had met Miss Morstan, before Mr. Sherlock Holmes became so dark and lost. They could observe the doctor in a bad temper and not have it make a pain in their stomachs and a clench in their hearts.

As a good member of his informal tribe of Irregulars was wont, he saw the Doctor returned to Cavendish Place, then ran to report to one of the older boys, who would know the way to get word to their employer.

Left alone to his own devices, he’d drift back to the Watson home, and keep vigil outside. From his own experience of the parents he barely remembered, anger that deeply felt was going to find expression, and it was likely to be violent.

And it was part of his charge --as well as his own satisfaction -- to make sure that Doctor Watson did not hurt himself.

　

**

_Watson:_

  
Fortunately, Mary was gone overnight and therefore did not have to bear witness to the bad behavior that her still as yet bridegroom could no longer contain. What staff we employed was off as well, so I had the run of my new home --even after several months it still felt so -- and could do what I would.

I stalked into the sitting room, focused my attention on a particularly ugly lamp that had been a wedding gift from some shirt-tail relation of my wife’s and seized it in my hands.

It had never been filled with oil, so it was with complete equanimity and satisfaction that I hurled it violently into a wall and watched it shatter.

I’d concoct some story for Mary when she returned, although in truth, she had found the bloody thing as ugly as I had and we’d exchanged a few pleasurable ideas of how to dispose of it and how best to explain its absence should her distant relative ever come for a visit. A vanishingly small prospect thank heavens.

I stood in the middle of my sitting room, assessing my feelings, gauging if the death of one ill appointed lamp was enough to vent my spleen. I had just come to the conclusion, that while it was not, I could not very well have Mary come home to find our home brought down to rubble, when there was a loud knocking at the front door.

I was in no mood for callers, but there was little to be done but answer the summons. I could ignore the rapping, but I was a doctor after all, and even though I had cleared my patient schedule for the next several days in preparation of what I thought would be a foray to the Continent, there might still be an emergency.

Nothing to be done about the ruins of the lamp in that moment, I moved to the door and opened it.

Mrs. Hudson, my former landlady, stood on the stoop, clasping Gladstone’s leash in her hand. The noble beast himself huffed a greeting and ambled through the open door. He planted himself at my feet and looked up at me expectantly.

“Dr. Watson! Thank heavens you’re home finally! I had instructions from Mr. Holmes to bring the dog to you before I leave London, and the boy I sent around said you weren’t home. My train is leaving in an hour…and…”

“Mrs. Hudson, please come in, at least for a moment? Leaving London? May I ask what has happened?”

The good woman did indeed step in the door, setting down a small bag in the foyer. “Mr. Holmes arranged for me to spend a few days outside of the city and while I could take the poor dog for as long as I’m gone, Mr. Holmes was quite insistent that he was to ultimately come to you. You know the poor beast doesn’t travel well, so I thought, if by chance I could deliver him straight away, it would be better for everyone concerned.”

It took a moment for me to truly heed what she said.

When I had married, it had been decided to leave Gladstone with Holmes, at least to start. I could not quite bear the thought of my Holmes living on alone at 221B, with only Mrs. Hudson for company, and honeymoon, then setting up a household indicated that any reunion with the animal I had always considered my dog, should be left to later.

With Gladstone in residence, at least Holmes had some diversion, even if it meant the dog being a continued test subject; and of necessity Holmes would have some small exercise in walking the great beast. And in spite of his declarations of indifference toward the dog, I knew he was inordinately fond of him.

I’d had to leave Holmes something.

The small bag that Mrs. Hudson had put next to the table that held the carte d’visite basket was, I realized, full of the Gladstone’s toys and appurtenances. That meant only one thing to my mind.

“Dr. Watson, my cab is waiting, I really must get to the station. I’m sorry to drop him off like this, but I hope you don’t mind?”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice intruded on my slow, but increasingly enlightened thoughts.

“Oh, not at all, Mrs. Hudson! Please, don’t let me keep you! Very kind of you to take the trouble, and I’m so sorry, I’d have come by to collect him myself, but you know how Holmes is--when he has a plan, I’m always the last to find out about it.” That last was probably spoken with more vehemence than it should have been.

Mrs. Hudson gave a small laugh then stepped aside as I opened the door again for her. I moved as if to see her to the cab that indeed stood at the kerb, but she waved me off.

Clutching the leash she’d transferred into my hands at some point in the last few minutes, I watched my former landlady handed up into the cab and the conveyance pull away in the direction of the nearest station.

There was one inescapable conclusion to be drawn from the unexpected exchange of ownership of the noble Gladstone.

Whatever happened with Moriarty on the Continent. Sherlock Holmes was not planning on coming back.

Lestrade. I had to speak to Lestrade.

***

 


	4. A Tangled Web

**Finality**

**Chapter 4: A Tangled Web**

  
L.A. Adolf

 

_Watson:_  
I arranged to meet Lestrade the next forenoon--at 221B Baker Street. I’d never surrendered my key to my former lodgings and so was able to let myself in some time in advance of Lestrade’s expected arrival.

I planned it thus so that I might have time to look over the place for whatever confirmation I could find of Holmes’s aims. Mrs. Hudson might have misunderstood his directions regarding Gladstone after all, or I might have been too distracted by fatigue and anger to have heard her properly.

These were the hopes I clung to, for the alternative was too appalling to contemplate.

I had spent a restless night previous, even though exhausted from the fruitless trip to Newhaven and back. Macabre dreams which I knew featured Holmes but which evaporated moments after waking had prevented my gaining any meaningful rest, and the fact that Gladstone had spent a good part of the night up and down, either sleeping at the foot of my bed, or on the bed with me, alternately entering the room and then leaving, as though searching for something. I’d awakened a time or two to the butt of his large head, and a questioning whine that I could do little to soothe.

He was missing Holmes.

He’d often stolen in to Holmes’s room to sleep at night. On those rare occasions in the past when I was up before Holmes and went looking for Gladstone for his morning constitutional, I’d often find the great beast curled up next to the Great Detective both dead to the world. Gladstone would often have his head on Holmes’s chest, and Holmes his arm around the dog’s body to the apparent mutual comfort of both. I wisely never mentioned witnessing such a charming tableau, and I often waited for Gladstone to lumber out on his own, not wanting to disturb either of them at their rest.

I left Gladstone at Cavendish Place today, not wanting to upset him further by bringing him back to the only home he’d ever known, when in fact, he might be destined never to live here again.

There was evidence of a recent fire--nothing extensive, its outbreak apparently promptly detected and dealt with, but the fact that neither Holmes, in his clandestine visit to my home two nights ago, nor Mrs. Hudson last night had mentioned it, seemed somehow significant.

The sitting room was in tidy order --a state in which it was seldom found since Holmes had been in residence alone. His chemical table was largely clear, his desk the most neat I had ever seen it, no stray papers to be seen, the surface visible for the first time in years.

The stray plugs and dottles of tobacco that had festooned the mantel were nowhere in evidence. His collection of pipes were arranged in their rack--where I had seldom seen them altogether at any one time in all the years of our association. The Persian slipper, free of any tobacco, lay next to them. The dagger that had anchored correspondence to the selfsame mantelpiece no longer pierced the wood of the structure--no correspondence was in evidence -- but lay not far from the slipper.

His case files, the one area where he’d been assiduous in his imposition of order were not to be found on the bookshelves, but rather in ledger boxes, neatly labeled. The "M’s" were missing. I’d have to ask Lestrade if that volume had already been delivered to him.  
　  
I was finding it increasingly hard to breathe for I had before me enough evidence for even a blind man to deduce Sherlock Holmes’s ultimate intention.

My mind rebelled at the obvious conclusion. I dashed toward Holmes’ bedroom, threw open the door.

The disarray of his private chamber gone.

The bed was stripped of all bedclothes and prepared in the fashion of furniture that was not to be used in the foreseeable future. The wardrobe when opened revealed no clothing whatsoever, except a collection of what appeared to be my old shirts and waistcoats, looking as though they had just come back from the launderers, clean, pressed and folded with a precision that I wasn‘t even sure Holmes knew how to accomplish on his own. Something sat atop the bundle, in the dim light of the room, I bent close to investigate.

A fine morocco case lay open, its hypodermic nested within. A full bottle of a seven percent solution also lay there. Beneath the case was a slip of paper.

"To be delivered to Dr. John Watson, M.D., Cavendish Place, London, in the event of my demise, with my thanks for their loan."

I staggered back until the backs of my legs made contact with the edge of the mattress and sat down hard, the evidence so overwhelming, my ability to dwell in a continuing state of denial, utterly decimated.

For the longest time, I was cognizant of nothing but the rasp of my breathing and the pounding of my heart in my ears. I might have been murdered where I sat and not had the sense to die, I was so disconnected from my corporeal self.

I started violently at the touch of a hand on my shoulder, and only barely avoided dealing Inspector Lestrade a devastating blow at the last minute.

"Doctor!" He was saying, loudly and insistently, "Dr. Watson, can you hear me? Are you all right?"

I snapped back to full awareness, looking up into the Inspector’s kindly eyes. I saw answers in them.

"I feared the worse when I arrived and the door was ajar! I charge up here and find you in a right state…you’ve taken ten years off my life, you have!" Lestrade’s voice was strained, I had, apparently, given him a fright.

"Tell me Lestrade." I began, trying to will my voice towards an equanimity I did not feel. "Start at the beginning and tell me everything."

  
*  
Lestrade did.

We repaired to the kitchen, far fewer associations with the spectre of missing friends, and he informed me of the repeated attempts on Holmes’s life, starting not long after my wedding.

An absence of over a fortnight, when I’d been informed that Holmes was in France, dealing with a matter for the French government, turned out to have been a convalescence at Mycroft’s Chichester estate after Holmes had been set upon and beaten severely by a gang of thugs.

He had indeed done some work for the French authorities during that time, conducting his investigation at a distance, communication handled by wire, had even received an honor for it. Lestrade could not keep the admiration from his tone--and it was singular that not only had Holmes managed to settle a case without setting foot on French soil, but also while he’d been bedridden from the results of the beating.

Lestrade warmed to his subject, informing me quite conversationally of developments that had me sick at heart with the realization of how far from our former partnership Holmes and I had come. While I had known that he had been pursuing the Moriarty case, I had no clue to the particulars involved. Even when Holmes had come to my house to enlist my assistance two nights past, he’d glossed over details, sketching only enough of the big picture to insure my cooperation.

Holmes had woven an ingenious trap for catching not only the maleficent Professor, but his entire gang. The trap was due to be sprung in another two days’ time, the Yard and Secret Service working in concert to pull off what would be a major coup for them both.

I learned how Moriarty himself had fled the country, and that even now Sherlock Holmes was in hot pursuit. Lestrade had received a telegram from Brussels, Belgium this very morning, indicating that his prey was heading via private express across the continent and that Holmes was not far behind, having followed suit.

I had the small comfort, at least, of knowing that my dearest friend was not alone. His brother Mycroft--uncharacteristically peripatetic-- and Constable Clark, on detached duty, were with him.

"He did give me his file on Moriarty, yes. Delivered it to me himself on his way to the docks two nights past. Said he’d just come from seeing you. You mean he didn’t tell you any of this?"

I barked a harsh laugh. "Has he ever? Even when we lived under the same roof, I was seldom privy to his plans."

"Well, Doctor, you being an old married gentleman now, everything is as it should be. I don’t need to tell you he’s a capable man, and he’s got my best Constable with him. He’ll be right as rain, mark my words, hauling the Professor back in shackles to face the docket. I’d invite you to be part of the action when we spring the trap on the gang in two days, but Mr. Holmes cautioned me against it. Right keen that you not be at any risk, however slight."

My gaze, which had been intently searching Lestrade’s face for the entirety of his recounting of the highlights of my former partner’s life for the past few months, dropped to the floor, desolate.

Clarky, stolid capable Clarky was with Holmes, in my place. The taste of that --for all that I hold the Constable in highest regard --was bitter in my mouth.

I wished fervently that Lestrade’s assessment would be right, and that Holmes would be returning, triumphant, with Moriarty in custody. But I had the evidence of an entire household around me, that screamed at me otherwise.

I could only hope that Clark and Mycroft perceived their companion’s mindset and could somehow prevent what I now feared inevitable.  
Mary was due home in an hour or two, cutting short her visit when wired with my fears early this morning.

I had no choice but to wait for her arrival, and place before her what I needed to do--hoping that she’d agree to what I was going to ask of her.

Before Lestrade and I left Baker Street this forenoon, I’d have his promise to keep me informed of whatever intelligence he might have regarding where Moriarty was ultimately headed if he did not already know.

I was damned-- and so was Holmes if he thought he could remove himself so neatly from my life-- if my dearest friend was going to meet such an implacable enemy alone. There was little chance I could catch up in time to actually join in the capture of Moriarty, but that wasn’t the adversary I feared most.

Holmes’s death wish was.

**

_Mycroft:_

"He can’t keep this pace up, sir. He’s been driving himself beyond all reason." Constable Clark looked at me with worried eyes that shifted to the view the picture my brother presented in the engine of our express train exhorting the already harried engineer to put on more speed.

"My brother possesses untapped reserves of strength. He’s in his element right now, keen on the trail of his quarry. His energy will not fail him before he has Moriarty and that device in hand, I assure you, Constable." I responded, my own gaze fixed on Sherlock. I shivered in the chill of the spring air as it rushed about us, standing as we were on the platform of the single car of the express.

Or so I convinced myself in the moment, and that it wasn’t a premonition of doom that sent the frisson of fear along my nerves.  
"I don’t doubt that, Mr. Mycroft. But what about after? And the Doctor not here to pick up the pieces when he finally shatters?" Clark continued, swinging his gaze back to me, the force of it making my eyes meet his.

A man of remarkable insight, Clark. As handy as he was as a Constable, I was going to see his position elevated to something more fitting his capacity for discernment if it was the last thing I ever did.  
　  
**

_Watson:_

Mary, as ever, was understanding of the compulsion I felt to follow Holmes, agreeing completely that there was no other course of action I could take as an honorable man, and friend to the Great Detective.

She set the household to ready my clothing and luggage, to arrange for conveyances and funds, even welcomed my old Naval nemesis, Captain Tanner into her parlour to discuss his opinions of the fastest way to cross the channel and reach the Continent. The very packet that Holmes, his brother and Clark had secured passage on two nights past was back and would be sailing again early the next morning--with his aid I was able to secure a berth, much as they had.

Sensing my exhaustion, and anger, she sought to soothe me as best she could. When we made love that night, she did not complain nor turn away when I was not as careful and tender as I had always been in our relations heretofore. She hummed me to sleep in her arms, my upset and anger subsumed by passion of a type we had seldom reached, and the next morning, she stood at the docks and waved me off, her perfect and unselfish love, shining from her eyes.

I never deserved it less, fool that I was, leaving the love and devotion of a good and kind woman behind, to pursue the one person on earth that I could never hope to understand or to live without.  
　  
***

 


	5. “...to throw away the dearest thing…”

**Finality**

**Chapter 5: “...to throw away the dearest thing…”**

L.A. Adolf

 

_Mycroft:_

“He is planning on securing the mechanism of the infernal machine in a deposit box in the vault of one of the many private banks in Zurich. If he succeeds in doing so, it will be lost to us forever, and ever at his disposal. The threat in that is unmistakable.”

I nodded, having reached nearly the same conclusions as my brother.

“We are less than an hour behind him at this point, we shall have him and the piece in hand before nightfall.” I assured.

Sherlock looked at me doubtfully, his eyes fever bright, his normally pale countenance, flush. He desperately needed to rest, but this close to Moriarty there was no point in even broaching the subject. I just had to hope that his strength would hold up a while longer.

Clark poked his head into the car. “Engineer says we will be putting into the main terminal in Zurich in ten minutes ,” he announced, his keen eye taking in the whole of my brother, then turning to me, its gaze speaking volumes about his doubts that my brother could hold himself together even that long. I gestured the concern away. Clark ducked back out.

I prayed that I was right, and that we could affect the capture of Moriarty. I had agents already planted in this city, they would be awaiting our arrival, ready to offer all possible assistance.

Back in London, the trap should have been sprung, the Professor’s gang rounded up. One of my men might be able to confirm that upon our arrival.

“Come, brother. Sit a moment, and gather your strength. We have at least nine to spare.” I laid a hand on his arm.

Sherlock looked at me sadly, “I dare not spare even that small comfort for fear that I may need to be carried off this train. Pray leave me to my own devices, Mycroft. I cannot fail this close to the end.”

I nodded, grimly.

It was dire straits in which we found ourselves, if even my brother was willing to admit that he was not invincible.

**

Irene Adler had ever been too proud of her own beauty to hold much regard for disguises.

But Moriarty knew her too well, and in order to relieve him of the mechanism, her ability to get close to him could not be compromised.

Moriarty might be a master of mathematical formulae and intrigue, but he was not Sherlock’s equal in powers of observation, at least when it came to the ordinary and commonplace.

And for once in her life, she had striven to epitomize the ordinary and commonplace.

Sherlock. If she could retrieve the mechanism, turn it over to him of her own free will, maybe, just maybe she could convince him to forget about his feckless doctor and come away with her. He deserved so much better than something he could never have.

And he _could_ have her. She’d always been his for the asking. He’d always been too prideful to ask. But maybe…

Irene watched as Moriarty stepped away from the train car, smiling at her own cleverness in guessing that it would be to Zurich the Professor would come. Banking capital of the world, and she recipient of drafts from his Swiss accounts, she knew in which of the private banks he hid his ill gotten gains.

If she was not successful here, and he somehow slipped away, she would know exactly where to go to find him.

He had his leather bag with him, the one with his monogram, clutched under his arm as though it held the worlds riches. And in a way it did.

She stroked the moustache and beard she’d spent a good part of the morning applying and drew her collar up to further disguise the too feminine curve of her jaw. Tensing her entire body, she launched herself forward, across the path of the tall man, who seemed distracted by the whistle of an approaching train.

Her well aimed cudgel paralyzed the nerves of Moriarty’s shoulder momentarily, just long enough for his leather satchel to fall from nerveless fingers. She snatched it up, and took off running.

*

It would be difficult in retrospect to determine who was more mortified by Sherlock Holmes’s loud cry and precipitous jump from the car of the express special as it pulled into the station, Constable Clark or Mycroft Holmes.

Clark because he had doubted that Holmes the younger retained enough physical energy to successfully complete the maneuver, or Mycroft for fear he might have to emulate it. Clark threw caution and personal safety to the winds to follow suit, the elder Holmes waited until the train had come to a complete stop, hoping that he’d be able to catch up to his more athletic companions.

The constable had limned in a moment, what had caught Mr. Sherlock’s eye, the cadaverous figure of Moriarty was throwing himself through the throngs at the train station in pursuit of a slight young man for reasons not readily apparent.

The detective, in spite of whatever frailty he might have exhibited earlier, was pressing through after them, and Clark focused on trying to catch up as best he could. Tossing a quick glance back over his shoulder, he saw that Mr. Mycroft Holmes was descending from the car, and being approached and greeted two men dressed in the English fashion.

His agents, Clark thought, relieved at not having to turn back to offer assistance. Mr. Holmes the elder had mentioned the duo would be waiting in Zurich for them some time earlier.

Clark pressed on.

The young man in the lead was lightweight and exceeding fleet of foot, but Moriarty was relentless in his pursuit, following the desperate figure down a nearby street and into an alley. Mr. Sherlock Holmes paused, caught Clark’s eye, and gestured him to follow, peeling off with the intention of heading off the fleeing young man and confronting Moriarty.

They were nearly successful. They had gained the opposite end of the short alley and were bearing down on the youth, Moriarty a few yards behind, when a shot rang out.

The young man stumbled then sprawled, a hideous blotch of red blossoming through the formerly pristine white of his shirt, landing heavily on the object he’d been clutching, a leather bag.

Moriarty bore down, kicking the body over and grasping at the satchel.

Sherlock Holmes emitted what could only be termed a roar and launched himself forward.

Moriarty had gained his objective, thrust his hand inside the leather pouch, snarled his own outrage, then tossed it aside. He seemed about to throw himself down on the prone body, ready to savage it, when he saw Holmes. With a feral grace, Moriarty checked his movement, and spun, fleeing back down the alley whence he had come.

To Clark’s surprise, Holmes threw himself down beside the prostate body, turning it over in his arms. Expecting for the barest of moments that Holmes would remain in pursuit, Clark paused.

“Sherlock, I --” the shape in Holmes’s arms spoke in a decidedly unmasculine voice. With a last ounce of life and effort, the dying figure lifted up hand and opened it.

The mechanism missing from Blackwood’s machine lay in the pale, feminine palm. Sherlock Holmes closed his own hand over it.

Clark, continuing after Moriarty, saw and heard no more at that moment, pressing onward after the cold blooded murderer.

It was Mycroft Holmes, lumbering up some moment later, preceded by his two compatriots following on Clark’s trail in pursuit of the now murderous professor--who had never so directly bloodied his hands before--who discovered his brother, still clutching a now cooling body in his arms, rocking ever so slightly.

“Sherlock?”

Dazed eyes traveled up, meeting those of his sibling, the agony of the ages plain within them.

　

He had never loved her, it was true, even his admiration of her was tempered with a supreme disapproval of who and what she was, fully expecting to be the instrument of her arrest and imprisonment some day.

He had never wanted to see Irene Adler dead. Yet she was, in his arms. Her last act --possibly neither as sinister nor altruistic as it first seemed, had been to deliver the dreaded piece of Blackwood’s damnable machine back into safe hands.

　

**

_Mycroft:_

Moriarty had, for the moment, escaped once again, in spite of the spirited continuation of the chase by Constable Clark and my Zurich based agents. They returned to the alley some minutes later, having lost their prey in the crowded streets of this major financial and cultural center of the country.

We were delayed in pressing our pursuit by the necessity of dealing with Irene Adler’s death. Fortunately, my brother was spared much of it. Between Clark, my agents and myself, we had related in verbal statements our positions as unfortunate witnesses to the tragic murder of an apparent pickpocket by the affronted crime victim. Travel documents in the discarded monogrammed bag identified Professor Moriarty as the owner of the item and the likely killer.

In death, Adler had provided our cause with the force of Swiss justice. The much vaunted privacy of Swiss banking did not hold in the face of cold blooded murder, and the local authorities were able to confirm which of the many private banks in the city was Moriarty’s.

He might not be in hand as of yet, but he was still within our grasp.

We had repaired to a hotel; Clark, Sherlock and myself. My agents were, within an hour of the death, sweeping the city for clues as to Moriarty’s next move. He’d been able to remove funds from his bank prior to its detection, but most lines of transportation out of the city were closed to him now.

We three waited for word from my men, and responses to telegrams sent. The Moriarty gang had been rounded up in London, the body incapacitated, discombobulated as it was, by the loss of its head. I reported the retrieval of the heretofore missing mechanism to Whitehall, and requested and received reports from various London agents on the safety and well being of both Mrs. Martha Hudson and Doctor John Watson, for my brother’s sake.

For his own part, Sherlock was outwardly composed, but those of us closest to him recognized his complete devastation. For all that she was as far removed from an innocent bystander as could be, his guilt at Adler’s murder was no less keen. It was but one more blow against a spirit that had received too many of them, another perceived failing in a man who allowed himself none of the humanity of making even one mistake or misstep.

We all understand the concept of the ‘walking wounded’ of warfare, those injured, but not so severely that they cannot not still ambulate.

Looking into my brother’s eyes in the desolation of that Zurich hotel room I became aware of another such classification, though I could not find the courage to give name or voice to it then.

The walking moribund wherein the spirit, killed outright has fled, but the body has yet to follow.

My agents returned that late that evening with news that Moriarty had hired a private conveyance and was on his way to Meiringen. We quit our room and made ready to follow.

Myself, Constable Clark, and the revenant which had once been my brother.

***

　

 


	6. "like greyhounds in their slips"

 

**Finality  
** **Chapter 6: “like greyhounds in the slips…”**

L.A. Adolf

_I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips.  
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot  
_ _Follow your spirit; and upon this charge  
Cry: “God for Harry! England and Saint George!”_

_Shakespeare, Henry V, Act III_

 

_Watson:_　

It was not until I had boarded the mail packet that I became aware that Holmes, his brother and Clark had not taken the route that Holmes had sketched to me the night before his pre-emptive departure.

I had fully expected to be landing at Dieppe and traveling across France and through Paris as had been the plan as I had initially understood it.

Instead, the trio had made landfall at Oostende, Belgium, where I found myself on the conclusion of my crossing. Wasting no time, I engaged transportation to Brussels.

It was there that I received my first intelligence as to the ultimate destination of Holmes and his companions. I had made prior arrangements with Lestrade to be advised of developments in the chase as he knew them, and an exchange of telegrams upon my arrival in the city informed me that Moriarty had been determined to be en route to Switzerland, and was even now being followed hard upon by the pursuing party, having traversed at last communication via Luxembourg to Strasbourg and proceeding from there towards Basle.

It was not yet known the Professor’s goal, he might be heading for Geneva, Bern or Zurich. I made provision to be notified of developments at the train stations at Strasbourg and Basle as I followed their trail.

My nerves, already rattled by worry for Holmes upon leaving London, had not been improved by the types of complications one must expect when traveling abroad, missed connections, late departures and arrivals. I wasted no time in hotels and or inns along the way, catching what sleep and meals I could on the trains, and in associated waiting rooms of the train stations. Every sense that I had urged me to find my friend as quickly as possible, and my soul strained to already be at his side. Such is the way of the world that physical barriers such as time and distance cannot be as quickly overcome as our spirits would wish.

When I reached Basle, I was exhausted, and although my will rebelled against it, I realized I must find quiet and rest or I would fall ill well short of my goal, or be at such a point of physical collapse upon finding my dearest Holmes, that I would be of no use at all. I found a small hotel not far from the rail station, and repaired there, after leaving word at the telegram office, should there be a further update from Lestrade.

I slept like the dead, awakened the next morning by a brisk knock at my door.

I was handed both a telegram and a letter by a hotel porter.

The telegram from Lestrade announced the successful capture of the Moriarty gang in London, assured me of my wife’s good health and Mrs. Hudson’s imminent return from the countryside, Holmes having sent her out of London until after the gang was dispatched with.

I turned my attention to the letter. It was from Mycroft Holmes.

I opened the envelope, withdrawing a single sheet covered in Mycroft’s fine hand as well as other several other documents. I ignored the enclosures and concentrated on the letter:

　

 

__

_“Watson,_

_“As I write this we have just left Zurich in pursuit of Moriarty, who narrowly escaped us at the train station. Irene Adler, in an heroic effort which has cost her life, retrieved the missing switch mechanism from Blackwood’s machine. Moriarty shot her in cold blood as she fled from him having stolen that coveted piece from his person at the station._

_“She died in Sherlock’s arms, while Moriarty made his narrow escape._

_“We have tracked his movements to the village of Meiringen in the Interlaken District and are even now but a few hours behind him. We believe that we will be able to complete our capture of him before he can reach his ultimate destination, which I (and Sherlock concurs) believe to be entry on foot into Italy and thence to freedom._

_“I need not tell you that Sherlock is in desperate straits in the wake of Adler’s murder, he bears the guilt heavily as you may well imagine. He has pushed himself beyond all human endurance, and I fear for his health and sanity as I never have before._

_“He needs you Watson, and you have my eternal thanks for taking it upon yourself to follow us across the Continent. Please find enclosed instructions, funds and documents to enable you to make all possible haste to Meiringen via special express train. I will have a man meet you at the railroad terminus at Leukerbad, he will escort you to the Gemini Pass and travel with you to Meiringen._

_“I will hope that by the time you arrive, Moriarty will be in custody, and that between Clark and I we will have been able to convince Sherlock that his job done, it will be his time to rest and recuperate. Your arrival should provide the uplift in spirits that he so needs at this time._

_“Waste not a moment, my brother’s life may depend upon it._

_“Yrs,_

_“Mycroft Holmes”_

 

　

It became obvious to me that my movements, both whilst still in England and since I had arrived on the Continent had been tracked by Mycroft Holmes, although by what network of informants I was never able --nor indeed did I really care-- to later discover.

What mattered was this: 

_“She died in Sherlock’s arms, while Moriarty made his narrow escape…Sherlock is in desperate straits_ _ _… he bears the guilt heavily as you may well imagine. He has pushed himself beyond all human endurance, and I fear for his health and sanity as I never have before…_ _

“Waste not a moment, my brother’s life may depend upon it.”

It was only in the interest of appearing respectable when I returned to the train station to put Mycroft’s plan into motion, that I spared the time for ablutions, shaving and a change of clothes.

Within the hour I had followed that summons and was on my way to be finally where I ought not ever to have left, by Sherlock Holmes’s side.

_**_

_Clark:_

The journey to Meiringen was an arduous one, and at times I felt heavily the weight of responsibility, not just for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but also for the health and well being of his brother, Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

The former was worn to a mere shadow by not only his dogged determination to see a master criminal brought to justice, but also the effects of an already broken heart, torn from what moorings it had yet clung to by the senseless death of Miss Adler.

The latter was a man used to a sedentary pursuits where that part of his body he utilized most was his mind. He was not well suited to active exercise of cross country travel at higher elevations than could be found in the whole of Britain. But he endured all without complaint for the love --though he would scoff to hear it said aloud -- of his younger brother.

We gained Meiringen at midday. A lovely little village nestled in alpine

splendor, we had little time to appreciate its charms. Stopping at the Englischer Hof inn, we discovered that Moriarty had taken rooms the night before, apparently feeling that he had either escaped our pursuit or had gained a sufficient lead over us, that the time could be spared to rest. He had checked out this morning, indicating an innocent intention to see Rosenlaui glacier. He did not give the clerk at the desk an answer to his intention or timetable of returning.

We were now but an hour behind him. He had been witnessed leaving the village proper that scant amount of time before we gained it.

I would not have thought that anything could reanimate the features of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he’d looked like a walking dead man ever since quitting Zurich. But the report of that last witness, of a man fitting the description of the evil Professor, brought life back into the grey features, and a sparkle to his eye.

“The game is afoot, Clarky!” Mr. Holmes leaned close and whispered, clapping his hands together delightedly. “I only--”

I never knew what he meant to say for at that precise moment, a cry of “fire” was raised and a great commotion commenced. By what was later pieced together, an apparent arsonist had set several buildings in the village afire. No one knew how long they had smoldered, but the alarm was now given and all able bodied men and more than a few women and children in the village streamed to put the blaze out.

Mr. Mycroft had with him one of the two agents we had met with in Zurich, the other had been left at the mouth of the pass we had just traversed, although Mr. Mycroft had not informed me why at that time. I had but turned back to locate them in the uproar that was

unfolding, to find them hurrying up to me.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft Holmes was shouting, “where is my brother?”

“Right here, sir…” I responded automatically shouting over the general hubbub. Sherlock Holmes had been at my elbow not a minute ago. But as I swung around I realized he had vanished.

We three left behind stared at each other for a moment. There was really but one way to the Rosenlaui glacier, and our witness had said that Moriarty had set upon it, an hour hence.

I turned and took off running, Mycroft’s man right behind me, Mr. Mycroft Holmes himself urging us forward, up the narrow pathway that led to Reichenbach Falls.

**_note:　 The village of Meiringen suffered a devastating fire in 1891 the same year that ACD had Holmes meeting his end at Reichenbach falls.　 See p. 313 Baring-Gould, The Annotated Sherlock Holmes Vol. II_

 

 


	7. "Sometimes I Take A Great Notion"

 

** **

**Finality:**

**Chapter 7: ‘’Sometimes I take a great notion…”**

 

L.A. Adolf

_Some times I live in the country  
Some times I live in town　  
_ _Some times I take a great notion  
To jump in the river and drown.  
_ _Irene, good night, Irene. Irene, goodnight.  
Good night, Irene, good night Irene.  
I’ll see you in my dreams._

Irene, Goodnight, 1886 Gussie L. Davis

 

_ **Sherlock Holmes:** _

My last clear memory before hearing the cry of “Fire” was of an alley in Zurich and watching as the light of life left Irene Adler’s beautiful face. 

I remember closing the lids of the eyes that had in the past, regarded me with calculation, mischief, something that might have been affection and finally a kind of hopeless frustration, as I left her behind on a platform on an unfinished bascule/suspension bridge.

I remembered a warm, lithe body, throwing itself in my arms in a Nine Elms slaughterhouse, Irene grateful for the rescue from what would have been a gruesome death.

I remembered regret that I could not feel what she would have me feel, could not answer her interest with my own. My heart was otherwise engaged you see, and had been before she and I had ever met.

I remembered that same body, limp and growing cold in my arms, bathed in the vivid red of fresh blood. 

__

_Goodnight, Irene._

And I remembered nothing more.

My body continued, moved mechanically, responded to questions asked, ate when bade, climbed on up horseback, into a carriage, walked over alpine trails. I did not inhabit my physical aspect, my spirit was gone. I don’t know where, nor did I care. I existed --and only that --in a state of enveloping numbness.

Soul and spirit slammed back into me in a little village called Meiringen, when the fateful alarm was raised.

I spared no thought, instead, seeing the outcry for the hand of Providence it was, I reacted. Clarky turned away from me, and I ran.

Hard and fast, the most punishing pace I’d ever subjected myself to.

Moriarty was within reach now--I could sense his nearness, taste and smell his presence. The foul miasma which sickened everything within its influence was detectable even in this pristine mountain air. The stink of death followed in his wake

For the first time in weeks--perhaps months, my way was clear. I saw the ultimate purpose of my life, and it was with something akin to relief that I set myself upon attaining it.

Several times I glimpsed him, I had gained upon him that quickly, his pace had been leisurely until I’d made some small noise that alerted him to my pursuit. Like a bloodhound on the scent, I bore down on him, until at last, we were at the Reichenbach Falls.

It is a small side trip on the way to Rosenlaui and its famous glacier, he must have stumbled on the wrong path in his desire to escape me, chosen falsely, taken a wrong turning. It little mattered. We met before the Falls, implacable enemy to implacable enemy.

“You have less frontal development than I should have expected,” said he at last as we stood, face to face, yards from the lip of that thundering great flow of water. “It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes. You hope to place me in the dock. I tell you I will never stand in the dock. You hope to beat me, I tell you that you will never beat me. You bring destruction on me, I stand ready to do as much to you.”

I smiled, genuinely. “Assured of the former eventuality, I cheerfully accept the latter. For this I have lived, and will gladly die.”

We launched ourselves at each other. Crashing together with the force of two Titans of mythology. He was older than myself, but in remarkable physical condition, for all that he had the look of a walking corpse. I was not, admittedly at the pinnacle of my own physical powers--we were well matched.

He knew that his own game was up, and throwing his arms around me he carried us closer to the brink of the falls, seeking nothing more than to revenge himself upon me.

My knowledge of Barton’s jujitsu enabled me to slip though his grasp.

Overcompensating for my sudden feint, he staggered and I took the opportunity to tackle him about the waist and heft him up. With every last ounce of strength I possessed, I pushed him from me. He contorted his body every way that he could, and clawed at the air, but his efforts were in vain.

My own momentum carried me down to the ground at the very lip of the Falls, my head quite over the chasm. I heard the ungodly scream, saw the body strike rocky outcroppings, bounce from them brokenly, until it was gone, lost to the roar of the water.

I picked myself up, eyes never leaving the spot I had last seen his evil form.

My reason for entertaining a continued existence was gone, and the pull of the terrible chasm was strong.

I had been one of the reanimated dead for so long, it seemed only fitting that I now complete the process.

I had ripped out my heart some months ago, pushing from me the only being I had ever loved and or truly desired, because to stay by my side, to live in the same household, continue on with the work that we did together, was to sign my dearest love’s death warrant.

Only belatedly did I realize -- by then too late --that a man cannot continue to live on without that vital organ. It follows that once the heart has been removed, the body must follow down ‘the way to dusty death’.

I tried once before to put an end to the misery of my existence, my empty vessel of self suspended at the end of a rope.

My brother saved me. Cut me down, dosed me into oblivion, then by sheer force of his not inconsiderable will, kept me alive.

There was no one here to stop me now. Clarky, good, solid soul that he was, was undoubtedly even now closing the distance between us. I had at the most minutes to carry through on my intention.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to begin the fall forward, yield to the gravity of the abyss. 

__

_Goodbye, Watson. Find it in your heart to forgive me for this…as you have so much else…_

 

The sound of the falls made it difficult to hear anything but their roar, but somehow, above it all, I heard the report of the rifle, simultaneous with the force of a hit that spun me around, away from the lip of the chasm, carrying my body down to the ground, twisted in an exquisite, blossoming agony.

Dimly I perceived a figure, outlined on the cliff above the falls, rifle to shoulder, ready to take a second shot.

There was another sharp report, and in that last moment, I saw yet another body fall into the chasm.

The last thing I saw was Clarky, ginger hair disheveled, face flushed from exertion and kindly features contorted in a kind of horror as he threw himself down on his knees and bent over me.

I used the last breath in my lungs to whisper the only words I wished for my epitaph, “Tell Watson…I loved him…”

Blackness descended, I knew no more.

*******

 


	8. “Till the tired heart shall cease…”

** **

**Finality:**

**Chapter 8: “Till the tired heart shall cease…”**

L.A. Adolf

　

_Ah, nothing is too late,  
the tired heart shall cease to palpitate._Morituri Salutamus (1875)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

_Mycroft:_

I had struggled on up the pathway towards Rosenlaui and Reichenbach as best I could, but the altitude and too much sustained activity in recent days conspired to have my sitting by the wayside attempting to recover my breath and equilibrium, before I was much advanced from the village.

Clark and my agent had taken off after my brother immediately, all my hopes were now with them.

I should have sent for Watson sooner, found ways to delay the pursuit of Moriarty --even if it meant his ultimate escape -- because to my mind, nothing was more precious than my brother’s life at this point or any other. None of this would have happened, if somehow, I had been able to bring Sherlock and his Doctor together sooner, I knew it in my soul.

I must have presented --still within eye shot of the edges of the village--some picture of distress-- for a pair of villagers approached me offering assistance. The fire had not required every able bodied being in the environs apparently and the good keeper, Steiler, of the Englischer Hof, where we had promised to take rooms, thought enough of protecting an imminent investment, so send one of his young lads along after us as well.

I was surrounded by two concerned villagers and the young fellow, all encouraging me to, once I was somewhat improved, repair back down to the so far safe from the fire hotel inn. I on the other hand was vociferous in stating my intention to stay where I was until the other members of my party returned.

Thus it was, that Clarky and my agent come down the pathway, not long afterward, my brother’s body clutched in the manful grip of the good Constable, my agent helping to steady his burden with one hand, clutching a rifle in the other.

It is a wonder, if ever I was to expire of a seizure of my heart, that I did not fall dead to the ground as the ghastly trio hove into view. As it was, I quite forgot my own complaints, stood up, fairly bowled over my kindly attendents and ran--as much as a man of my bulk can --up the path to meet them.

“Brother?! Clarky? Is he--” My voice was an octave or two higher than I thought it ever capable of rising since my prepubescent years, and my dignity quite forgotten. In the horror of the moment, it was of no consequence and no one noticed or cared, least of all myself.

“He’s alive, sir,” Clark said with some difficulty, the poor man was nearly done in. Sherlock had been quite beneath his top fighting weight for months now, but it was still no inconsiderable feat for the Constable to be carrying a man nearly as tall as he was himself any distance. I think it was only the greatness of the good fellow’s heart that allowed such a thing. My agent shrugged, elegantly communicating in that gesture that he’d tried to do more to help with the burden of my sibling, but had been refused.

“He’s been shot. There was a sniper atop the falls, your man here dropped him into the Falls and while I attended to Mr. Sherlock, climbed up to see what could be found. I did what I could to staunch the bleeding, sir, but your brother needs a doctor as soon as we can get one.”

Clark staggered just then, and I instinctively reached out to pull my brother from his arms, allowing the dead weight of him to carry us both to the ground.

It wasn’t right that Sherlock, insensible, had the most profound look of peace on his features that I had seen grace them in months; not since the night I had cut him down from his attempt at self immolation in his sitting room at Baker Street.

I placed a hand on my brother’s cheek almost recoiling at the heat of it--how long had this fever raged I wondered, it could not be a consequence of the gunshot wound so quickly-- and whispered to him fiercely, “Watson is coming, you idiot, don’t think you are going anywhere just now.”

I’d kept Sherlock alive by the force of my will before, and I focused myself to do the same now.

I had barely sunk to the ground with my burden, but that all about me broke into frenetic activity. The inn-keeper’s boy was sent back to the village proper--to locate and alert the Swiss doctor who had a somewhat lucrative practice tending to the complaints of alpine hikers and tourists. The villagers, with the aid of an abashed Clarky made a makeshift stretcher of their arms, and soon, my brother was hefted up and taken to the Englischer Hof, my agent helping me to my feet, and aiding me to the village in their wake.

The details that Clark had not been able to provide, I had from my man.

He confirmed that he and Clark had arrived at the Falls in time to see Moriarty tumble to his death. Before they’d had a chance to close the distance between Sherlock and themselves, the rifle shot had rang out, and my brother had fallen to the ground. My agent had, although equipped with only a sidearm, managed to drop the sniper, who fell after the evil professor into the Falls. While Clark had done what he could for my brother, my agent scrambled up to the villain’s perch. He’d found a discarded jacket and the rifle, dropped when the gunman had been hit.

Colonel Sebastian Moran had been whispered about as being somehow connected to Moriarty, but had vanished from London some days before Moriarty himself. Our attention stayed focused on the bulk of the gang and its head over Moran and his whereabouts.

He had apparently been waiting for Moriarty in Rosenlaui. Moriarty had sent word ahead and a trap for my brother had been laid.

The weapon itself was a rifle of exceedingly new manufacture, the new smokeless powder Carcano in development since 1888 for the Italian army and just released. Moran, an expert shot, renowned hunter, with a history of champion sharp shooting during his military days, was just the sort to acquire such a new and unique firearm for his own personal use.

That he also employed a unique ammunition, may have saved my brother’s life.

My agent, a sharpshooter himself, identified an unspent round as a 6.5 x 52 Carcano cartridge, with a round nosed bullet. It was not favored in military uses, because the bullet itself was so stable, lacking the usual yaw and tumble that did such grievous--and desireable in military usage --damage to the tissue unfortunate enough to encounter it. The resultant characteristic straight channel, though-and-through wounds were desirable in hunting if not warfare. Moran must have compromised immediate stopping and killing power for the intention of inflicting a disabling wound, to be followed by a second shot, the coup de grace.

It was by the grace of God and the timely arrival of Clarky and my agent, that Sherlock was spared that.

My brother was carried into the cleared dining area of the Englischer Hof, the Swiss physician awaiting his arrival.

Clark and myself spent the next two hours while the Swiss doctor stabilized my brother’s condition, in an uneasy yet companionable silence bound together by our desperate worry for Sherlock.

The fires had been put out, with great loss to the village infrastructure. Although the hotel was untouched, the resources of the Meiringen would not support the presence of others than its own residents and would need to convert the inn into temporary living space for the local homeless.

The doctor had cautioned us that the best he could do for my brother would be to stabilize his condition, and that it would be in the patient’s best interest to evacuate him to Leuk and the small hospital there as soon as he was finished his initial tending of the wound.

My agent set about making arrangements for us all to leave Meiringen at the doctor’s go-ahead. There was no lack of young, strong men, now needing extra income available to bear a litter down the pass and into the small city.

That it would be Leuk was a godsend of itself. Watson would even now be beginning his journey to the same destination.

My charge, and that of Clarky, would be in keeping Sherlock’s soul tethered to his body, until the love of my brother’s life could arrive and the two be reunited.

Only that circumstance was likely to give Sherlock whatever will he would need to live.

　

**

_Watson:_

The vagaries of Swiss travel were such, that I was compelled, even with the hiring of a special express, to route from Basle through Geneva, and thence to Leuk

That I was making forward progress at all was the only balm I had to my much battered soul and sensibilities during that dreadful journey.

Travel time to Geneva notwithstanding--which was substantial enough--the leg from that fair city to Leuk was between six and eight hours, and that was given clear tracks on the narrow gauge car to which I would be forced to switch.

I do not know --or perhaps I do -- what I had done to so anger the fates that I received very little cooperation from them on my desperate and despairing journey to Holmes. There were delays in departure from Geneva, blocked tracks some third of the distance to Leuk terminus, and a required side-tracking for another express bearing an apparently more august personage than myself as their train took precedence over that bearing a de factor agent for the British government, myself.

It was, therefore, late in the day following my summons from Mycroft Holmes, that I found myself alighting from my express special, onto the platform at the Leuk train station.

I might as well have spent a charming week wandering up the Valley of the Rhone for the speed at which my travels had actually brought me to my penultimate --or so I still believed --destination.

I was completely on my last nerve when, as expected, I was met by Mycroft’s man as I stepped off the platform. He had hailed me, making his presence known by a pre-arranged sign, hefted what luggage I had with me, and was hustling me through the station towards a hired conveyance at the kerb of the street.

His expression was grim and anticipatory. Every anxiety and terror seized upon that expression and his continued silence after our initial greeting.

I could not take another step without word of Holmes, his health and whereabouts, especially in light of the delays in my arrival. Certainly whatever had been fated to take place with Moriarty had already come to pass, or the crime lord had made an escape. Either eventuality bore the potential of disaster for my dearest friend.

“Please, I must know. Have you word of Holmes?” I demanded coming to a complete stop beside the hired carriage.

“I am to take you to him, Doctor. Directly. He is here in Leuk. He has been shot ---”

My ears heard no more, my senses took flight. It appears that I must have fainted, for the first and last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared, I found my collar ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. I was inside the carriage, and Mycroft’s agent was bent toward me, a flask in his hands.

“I apologize Doctor for giving you such a serious shock. Mr. Sherlock Holmes is alive, but he’s desperately ill, I’m to take you straightaway to the hospital here in the city. Please, try to rest. We will be there shortly.”

Had I been alone, I would collapsed in on myself and wept. For all my efforts, for all the exertion and rush and worry. I was too late. Holmes had been hurt --shot?!-- and if the agent’s expression was any indication, his life despaired of.

I had not been where I ought to have been-- at his side every step of the way, sharing every danger and acting as barrier between him and peril. I could only stare out the window of the carriage and pray with every fibre of heart and soul, that I would gain his side and not be too late to aid in the saving of his life.

***


	9. "...not to the strong alone..."

****

**Finality:**

**Chapter 9: “…not to the strong alone…”**

　

L.A. Adolf

　

_

The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone;  
It is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.

Thomas Paine, 1775

_

　

_Watson:_

For every sin, by omission or commission, of which I was ever guilty, I was damned to the sight that awaited me in that small Swiss hospital room.

It was a tableau out of my most terrifying nightmares. To the right of the bed that was the predominant feature of the small space, sat Sherlock’s brother Mycroft, He was much changed from the man last seen in London, and was holding his sibling’s pale and limp hand between both of his own. Clarky sat to the left of the bed, his kind face a mask of utter devastation.

My dearest Holmes lay unconscious between them, so wan as to be almost bloodless. If he’d seemed gaunt and worn on that last night in London--not that many days ago--now he looked almost cadaverous against the white sheets. I had to focus minutely to assure myself that he drew breath, so complete was the picture of his frailty. Initial shock gave way to closer scrutiny revealed that he was not peacefully insensible, but restless, murmuring, his body wracked by shudders. A fine sheen of perspiration covered face, neck and upper chest, and bespoke a fever unconnected to and pre-existing to his wound. Not so much time had passed since that traumatic event for his fever to be so far advanced otherwise.

I had no doubt that his spirit walked a knife edge --life to one side and the void of death on the other. I wondered in that instant, to which side he would cast his own fate were he able, and did not like the answer my spirit provided.

My instinct was to run to the bedside and throw myself down beside him, but my limbs would not cooperate. I moved only with the greatest difficulty, each step arduous, as though slogging through a quagmire.

Clarky and Mycroft stood as I moved into the room, the face of the former transformed into an expression of profound relief. The latter turned the eyes so like his brother’s upon me with an open and beseeching look, so unlike his normal aloofness and insouciance as I know I will never see again.

Mycroft laid his brother’s hand tenderly on the counterpane of the bed, crossed over to me and performed the most unusual act of embracing me briefly as he spoke.

“Thank God, you‘ve come, Watson.”

He urged me to Holmes’s side, holding the chair he had just vacated for me as he pressed me down into its seat.

My eyes had never really left my Holmes, so I did not realize, until Clarky emitted a cry, that Mycroft had swooned. Ripping my gaze away from his brother, I was up on my feet in an instant and I moved to steady the elder Holmes, noting the grayness and clamminess of his skin.

“When did you last sleep? Or eat?” I chastised, realizing with a pang that it was a refrain with which I often greeted the man in the hospital bed next to me. Holmes’s sibling looked nearly done to death by overexertion and exhaustion. I knew in that instant that he had been holding on until my arrival, not willing to leave his brother until he could yield his place to me.

Mycroft’s agent had escorted me as far as the door to Holmes’s room, waiting in the corridor in case his employer should have need of him. He now swept into the room at Clark’s cry of alarm, and provided a strong shoulder for Mycroft to lean into.

“I’m here now, Mycroft, and I will take good care of Sherlock. You will commit yourself over to the care of one of the doctors here. I will not be the one to break it to your brother that while he lay ill, you succumbed of exhaustion and worry!”

Holmes’s brother--characteristically possessed of the same type of charisma as his sibling--looked more the vulnerable and ill middle aged man than he did the pride of Whitehall in that moment. He nodded resignedly and allowed himself to be led from the room heavily supported by his agent. He paused only long enough to cast a lingering, anxious look at Holmes before he was helped from the room.

Constable Clark moved to the foot of the bed, gazing disconsolately at the man he’d followed over half the Continent.

“I failed him, Doctor. I was supposed to keep this from happening, it was my duty to him, and” Clark forcibly turned his gaze from the insensible Holmes to meet my own, “you. I am sorry.”

I put a hand to the constable’s shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “You’ve failed no one Clark, least of all Mr. Holmes or myself. You have nothing to be sorry for. I am instead in your debt for taking on the responsibility that should have been mine. If there has been any failure here, it has been mine, not yours.”

“Oh no, sir! Never say that. You were well out of it at Mr. Holmes’s insistence! It was a terrible deception he played on you, he said so himself. It was the way he wanted it, Doctor.”

“And the fact I was fool enough to allow him his whim and fall for his tricks, is my failing. You should never have been forced to step into my place.”

“I was forced to do nothing. Everything I have done has been my duty and my pleasure! I’ve counted myself fortunate to work with our Mr. Holmes, truly.”

“I know, Clarky. I know and I am all the more grateful that is so. Now, I have the same advice for you as for Mr. Mycroft Holmes--food and rest would not be amiss. Once you’ve had both, perhaps you will do me the honor of filling me in on what I missed this last week, as I care for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?’

The good constable looked torn, his body craving what his mind would continue to deny him.

“You look as though you could do with a rest yourself Doctor, you’ve had a hard journey as well,” he opined.

“I asked for a cot to be brought in and placed beside his bed and I will avail myself of it as I can. Now go for now, Clark. You can best help Mr. Holmes and myself by coming back in a few hours, refreshed and well fed.”

Clark relented finally, moving to the door. He paused, his back to me, eyes straight ahead. “He wanted you to know something, Doctor, Mr. Holmes did.”

“Yes, Clark?” I urged gently.

“His last words to me…” Clark’s voice was soft, yet it carried, for all that his face was turned away. “He said, ‘Tell Watson I loved him.’ Figuring you should be knowing that.”

I let my gaze drift to the unconscious man in the bed even as I answered Clark. “I know he does. Thank you Constable, for your dedication and your discretion.”

“Sir.” Clark moved through the door and was gone.

Finally I was alone with Holmes.

I returned to the bedside, tugged inexorably there by a cord attached from his wounded heart to mine.

In a few moments I would satisfy the medical man and the healer just reunited with his most troublesome patient and acquaint myself with the minutiae of my dearest’s physical condition. But for this moment, as I sat back down, took Holmes’s hand in my own and brought it to my cheek.

I was but a part of one soul cleaved in two, and only now brought together and made whole.

Very soon I would wage war to save the life that was to me, so much dearer than my own, But for this moment I sat in silent communion, conveying through mind and force of will all the strength and love I could by touching his hand.

“I am here, my dearest, I am here.”

*

　

It might have been the workings of my own overwrought imagination, but it seemed to me that once I gained Holmes’s side that he rested a small measure more at ease. I spoke to him unceasingly, murmuring endearments at one turn, and then, as I completed a physical examination of his inert body, explaining everything I was doing, what I was looking for, and finally, my conclusions.

　

I had to believe that somewhere that clockwork mind was still ticking over, taking the beat and measure of all that went on around him, and that by this method I might hope to reach the entirety of his mind by perseverance. The sound of my own voice gave me some measure of comfort as well, for a completely unresponsive, largely silent --save for inane mutterings -- Holmes was an unnatural and uncommon thing.

I pulled back the bedclothes so that I might inspect the wound. Holmes had been fortunate that he’d taken the shot along the margin of his right flank. It was--as any rifle wound must be --a serious wound, but had not penetrated any internal organs or bowel, which would have doomed my dearest to a very painful and lingering death. The Swiss doctors had cleaned the wound path upon Holmes’s arrival at their facility late the day before, and dressed it in such a fashion so that it might drain. I inspected both entry and exit wounds, and satisfied that there was no sign of suppuration, replaced the dressings with fresh bandages.

I had the advantage, upon my arrival, of being able to claim precedence at Holmes’s personal physician, and so had been apprised off all treatment done and planned, as well as the staff’s preliminary diagnosis. It appeared to the learned minds with whom I consulted that my dear detective had been running a fever for several days prior to his being wounded at Reichenbach, and that it was this fever that was of primary concern. The bullet wound complicated matters, certainly, but was being well managed.

There is a class of illness that has the general name of “brain fever”, the causes of which remain ambiguous, but which often follow traumatic shock, and may also be caused or exacerbated by exposure to elements, sustained arduous physical activity and a failure to yield to the demands of the body for food, rest and hydration. Fever is the main symptom, headache generally follows, and various neurological aberrations are often present.

Holmes had been pushing his body to the extremes of its limitations for years, which made him prey to various abrupt and devastating bouts with illness in the normal course of things. In recent months, as I had observed somewhat from a distance, and by the report of Lestrade prior to my leaving London, his pursuit of Moriarty had kicked this tendency into the realm of the frenetic.

That Holmes had received an emotional shock, in the form of the murder of Irene Adler in his presence, was undeniable. That he’d pushed himself beyond all wisdom both before that tragic occurrence and in the days since, was incontrovertible.

He was now to pay the price and at the dearest cost imaginable for what was most at risk was his beautiful and brilliant mind, which the fever had the potential to destroy completely.

In the hours since he had arrived in Leuk and into the care of the Swiss doctors, his fever had steadily risen. Neurological abnormalities were presenting, uneven pupils, a stiff neck and other indicators of a pathological inflammation of the brain were now in evidence. Clark and Mycroft had described to the staff the strange state of mind Holmes had evidenced in the journey from Zurich to Meiringen, also sensitivity to light, sound, touch, squinting, outward indicators of severe headache and some slight motor impairment.

I had come to realize, whilst I held his hand to my face, bathing it with silent tears, that the limb exhibited signs of incipient paralysis, lacking the normal autonomic responses.

I called for iced water and compresses and stood looking down at my beloved whilst I waited them to be brought to the bedside.

The situation was dire. There existed no true treatment for brain fever except to keep the head cool, keep the patient calm and quiet in a darkened and largely silent room. I set about insuring the environment conditions.

When ice, water and soft cloths arrived, I arranged them within arms reach, then, removing my boots, I crawled into the bed with Holmes, my back to the head of the bedstead, my beloved reclined back against my chest.

The heat that radiated from that too slight and gaunt body was alarming in its intensity, all the more so since I knew that body to be so precariously lacking the reserves to fight a pernicious fever.

The battle lines were drawn and I was the general in charge of battalion woefully inadequate in ammunition and troops. In the gloom of an early May evening, I began my war in earnest.

I bathed face, and forehead, wetted the wild hair that I knew I would have to shave come the morrow to aid in the sustained cooling of the overheating cerebrum. When the ice was gone and the water warm, I called for more.

I begged, I pleaded, cajoled, I sang soft lullabies, and hummed the tunes he’d played for me on his beloved Stradivarius into the perfect shell of his ear, convinced that if I could keep him connected to me through as many senses as I could, he could not leave me.

I would have bargained with the devil himself, to prevent that eventuality from coming to pass.

I had always thought that with my love lying pliant in my arms, all that was wonderful and pure and right about the world would be mine to share with him.

That transcendent zenith had not yet arrived, and if I did not win every skirmish in this Armageddon, it never would.

**


	10. "a desperate disease..."

** **

**Finality:**

**Chapter 10: "a desperate disease"**

L.A. Adolf

_"A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy."_

_Guy Fawkes, 1605_

_Dr. John Watson:_

In the end all my efforts to prevent a rise in Holmes’s fever were for naught, but even this was not unexpected, and it was important that treatment of symptoms at least had begun immediately.

I kept that first night with my love in my arms, soothing and cooling him as best I could. But by morning he was increasingly restive, his ravings more pronounced.

He was no longer as deeply insensible as he had been upon my arrival, but the consciousness exhibited was not of any quality nor was it a source of any reassurance. Brown eyes that had formerly glowed with intelligence and wit were now dazed and unfocused, suspicious and wary of whatever his fevered mind allowed him to see. He perceived many things that were not, in fact, there, people, objects and circumstances, as evidenced by his occasionally nonsensical ramblings and mutterings. And disconcertingly he seemed unable to distinguish those things that were present--including myself.

His physical symptoms had progressed to include nausea, a further torment since the resulting vomiting was largely unproductive, save for causing corresponding incontinence and flux. Keeping him clean and comfortable became a major imperative and a constant struggle.

Toward that end, it was with more than a little regret that I made the decision to proceed with shaving Holmes’s head. In point of fact, it was less an actual shaving than it was a very close clipping. Even utilizing a safety razor presented too much hazard of inadvertent cutting of skin--given his growing restlessness and delirium--and the risk of infection was too great already to tempt fate with any additional ingress into his already beleaguered system by means of a nick or cut.

Mycroft Holmes had come into the room shortly after the breakfast hour, looking far better than he had on my arrival the late afternoon before, His skin tone had returned to normal and some of the heavy lines and shadows removed from his features by a night of rest and two good meals. He was still deeply distressed for his brother as evidenced by his sad expression and general mien, but no longer looked as though he’d been tapping on death’s door himself.

I consulted --as a courtesy and no more-- with him on my plans to see to his brother’s comfort. The statement of intent --for it was that, more than a request for permission --seemed to cause the elder Holmes considerable pain. Nonetheless, he attempted to effect nonchalance.

"It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had his hair shaved," Mycroft’s deep commanding voice was pitched low and soothing. "He was always sticking his head into something or other as a child, and one time it was an open tree trunk heavy with sap. When repeated scrubbings would not remove the viscous mess, Mother held him whilst Father shaved him bald with his straight edge. There was much wailing, gnashing of teeth and crying. Took Mother a week or more to stop mourning his lovely long locks, which hadn’t been cut prior to that since his birth. And Father a week or so beyond that to recover his nerves from the fuss Mother had made during the shaving. Sherlock couldn’t have cared less."

As worried as I felt and exhausted as I was, I found this small reminiscence charming and could not help the smile that crept over my face. I knew virtually nothing of my Holmes as a child, but could readily picture the scene Mycroft so vividly painted. In the face of such strain and tragedy, his memory was a balm to both our nerves.

Having finished the changing of Holmes’s night shirt and bedclothes, I resumed the position I had spent much of the prior night, spine to the head of the bed and Holmes leaning back against me. He was utterly spent by the latest bout of nausea, and dozing fitfully. I arranged toweling to catch the locks as they fell from my scissors and set about my task.

I had to stop frequently, this necessary step in treatment of the patient was so much harder than it would seem to an outsider.

Holmes’s hair had always been something of a barometer of his moods and health. He could be as sleek as a cat when it suited him and all was going well in his world of the mind, especially when he had a case before him upon which to focus. When he fell into his black moods, his tonsure became as disordered as his psyche, as did anything in his immediate orbit; as the state of order in the sitting room could often attest.

But this step, so necessary in the cooling of his brain from the steadily rising fever, was something outside of the vagaries of his personality. A circumstance forced, without his permission on this most strongly willed of men. That he was utterly helpless and unable to do so much as offer acquiescence or protest made it all the more pitiable.

Constable Clark made his return to the room mid point in the tonsorial exertions, trying but failing to hide his dismay at this turn of events, the ‘tsk-tsk" and furrowed brow giving him away. To cover, he made himself as useful as ever, bathing Holmes’s face with cool cloths as I worked on cutting his hair.

There was no sound in the room save the snick-snick of the scissors and the occasional small noise from the patient as he struggled against unseen foes in his uneasy sleep.

Dark locks fell onto the white toweling, their mass growing as the minutes ticked by.

I tried to focus as closely as possible on doing a thorough and even job, divorcing myself from the reason for the activity in order to see it through. So great was my focus that I was startled when a cry of anguish rent the air.

Mycroft Holmes had lurched up from his seat, and was looming over the bed, an expression of exquisite anguish clouding his features, his eyes glistening with moisture.

"I seem no better than my mother, Doctor," he said with some difficulty, as one hand reached out to tenderly brush his brother’s forehead. "If you will excuse me, I will take some time to compose myself."

Holmes’s brother withdrew from the room, the great shoulders shaking.

I watched him go, pausing in my task, at a loss for what to say, my own throat tight with emotion.

Clark cleared his throat, and reached for another towel. Taking advantage of my hesitation, he tucked the fresh cloth beneath the one I had spread, and expertly folded the old up, removing it. He did not move to dispose of the towel or its contents, instead laying it almost reverentially on the bedside table.

"For mourning brooches," Clarky said very quietly, as if in answer to my unvoiced question. "Should it come to that. Which it won’t, not with you here now and taking such good care of him."

He was right of course, the longer locks wrapped in that towel would lend themselves to that grim ritual purpose, so the protest I voiced was not to that practical pre-emption.

"There is so little I can do, Clarky. He grows worse all the time. I can see to his comfort, that is all. I cannot materially effect the outcome of what will be." I admitted, my voice choked and tight.

Clarky sat back down, dipped a cloth into the cool water at the bedside and set about bathing Holmes’s face, neck and arms once more with a quiet, calm competency that was oddly comforting.

"That is not true, Doctor," he responded after a moment of thoughtful silence. "Of all the people on this earth, you are the only one who can save him. Maybe not through your skills as a medical man, even science has its limits--though I’m glad Mr. Sherlock Holmes is not in a condition to hear me say that. But as the keeper of his heart, only you can keep it beating. None other. Never doubt it."

The good constable had spoken with such utter conviction and faith, I was quite unmanned. With a small cry of my own, I let my cheek press to the stubble of the hair on the fevered head resting against me, giving myself over to the powerful emotions I held at all times only in the most tenuous of check. Clarky continued his attentions to Holmes with one hand, and placed a solid grasp to my shoulder with the other.

It was a touch of comfort and comradeship, and perfect support of the need to give vent to strong emotions in order to regain the strength to move forward.

I was never more grateful for anything in my life.

**

The struggle with any desperately ill patient is to keep them fortified against the mechanism of disease that robs them of vitality and compromises their natural ability to throw off pathogens.

The major allies in this battle are the intake of adequate nourishment and hydration. More than one patient has been lost during the course of a long confinement by the inability to take in needed nutrition and life giving fluids alone, regardless of the mortality rate of the sickness that has compromised them.

　

I had been fortunate, when after my own wounding in Afghanistan and the course of enteric fever that followed, that I was tended assiduously by hospital staff and by my own orderly Murray, who forced water and sustenance through my lips. Anything less than their heroic efforts and I would not have survived to return to England.

Over the course of the next fortnight, this was the challenge that we--Mycroft, Clarky and I -- faced in our battle to preserve the life of Sherlock Holmes.

My beloved experienced periods of semi-lucidity, alternating with profound insensibility, the latter longer and more enduring than the former. The ultimate and most formidable challenge became taking advantage of those periods when the swallowing reflex was present, even if the will or inclination to take in food or water was not.

Much time was spent coaxing a few mouthfuls of soup or gruel between lips that perceived each attempt at force feeding as an attempt to assault and poison. For every spoonful swallowed, another was spit out by intention or regurgitated by a body oversensitized to stimuli by neurologic excitability.

When the paranoid delusion was upon Holmes, even in extreme weakness he was yet a formidable opponent possessed of a redoubtable force of will.

It was Clarky who hit upon the idea of invoking my name in an attempt to essentially blackmail the great detective into taking in nutrition.

Holmes might not be cognizant that I was in the room with him --nor to be fair did he recognize Clark or his own brother in the state he was in--but a threat to my well being proved effective more than once in convincing the recalcitrant invalid to take in whatever sustenance was being offered. For the sake of his "dear Doctor", held by anonymous kidnappers and threatened by them with grievous injury if Holmes did not eat, more than one bowl of comestibles was gotten into the fever racked body.

It was a regrettable course of action perhaps, but as the proverbial saying goes, desperate times call for desperate measures. And there was not anything that we would not have done to help preserve Holmes’s life.

Yet it was a campaign that yielded no substantial victories. The longer the fever and associated symptoms endured, the less likelihood existed that there could be recovery from them, especially with all faculties intact.

Late in the second week of Holmes’s illness, I was approached by the head of staff of the small hospital, a kindly man who had provided much by way of support and knowledge during our fight for my dearest Holmes’s life.

"Your efforts have been heroic, Dr. Watson," he began. "Mr. Holmes has exhibited no real improvement over the course of his illness, and he’s wasting at a rate faster than you can coax sustenance into him. You should be prepared. His system cannot tolerate this strain for too much longer. It is only a matter of time now. You may want to consider saying your farewells, letting nature take its course…"

I don’t know what I said in response, how I maintained my equilibrium and managed to take my leave of the man. I only know that I did, staggering back to Holmes’s small room, seating myself at his side, and taking up my journal, which I’d taken to in the first days after my arrival in Leuk, to document the course of the illness and our efforts at treatment.

It was late at night and I was alone with my dearest one. While I knew in my rational medical-mind that what the Swiss physician said was true in its generalities, I could not allow myself to embrace the inevitability of its particulars.

I could not envision a life, going forward, without Holmes in it.

I marked the hours to dawn, vaguely warring within myself at the sagacity of the Swiss medical opinion and the truth of my own heart.

　

There remained but one arrow left in my quiver. As the new day dawned, I realized I would have to use it.

_**_


	11. The Bardo

 

** **

**Finality:**

**Chapter 11: The Bardo**

 

L.A. Adolf

　

 

_   
_

> _“…we should have some understanding of the basic idea of  
> bardo: **bar** means in between and **do** means island or mark; a  
> sort of landmark which stands between two things…The concept of  
> bardo is based on the period between sanity and insanity, or the  
> period between confusion and the confusion just about to be  
> transformed into wisdom; and of course it could be said of the  
> experience which stands between death and birth. The past situation  
> has just occurred and the future situation has not yet manifested  
> itself so there is a gap between the two. This is basically the bardo experience.”_
> 
> _The Tibetan Book of the Dead, The Bardo of Dharmamata_

 

　

 

__

_Sherlock Holmes:_

 

I had sought peaceful oblivion and on the lip of the precipice at Reichenbach, and with the report of the rifle shot I had thought I had found it.

I had never considered that the journey to death might be more difficult than the living of life had ever been.

I expected I would be delivered from torment, not into it.

There was pain, and there was a stultifying heat from which I could find no relief.

I was set upon from all sides, taken prisoner and confined in chains, my tormentors always in shadow and too distant to clearly perceive. My clothing was rent, torn from my body, leaving me shivering in bitter cold, alternatively I was wrapped up in blankets that bound my limbs to my body and threatened to suffocate me.

Foul, poisonous concoctions were forced into my mouth and down my throat. I retched and struggled, spat and cursed, but for every ounce of toxic substance rejected, more followed.

I vomited violently, fouled and wet myself in the debility the continued torture induced in me. I was allowed no dignity, to chance to tend to myself, manhandled with perfunctory efficiency, cleaned with rough cloths and no regard for pride or seemliness.

I was held down, my head shorn, humiliation heaped upon degradation, upon mortification.

Why could I not be allowed to die? What purpose could there be to this suffering save to satisfy some depraved mind?

And why could I not deduce the identity of this nemesis whose sick desires I was hostage to? I had witnessed Moriarty’s death with my own eyes, seen Blackwood meted out justice at the end of a chain at the bascule bridge, I had debunked his supernatural posturing.

The worst of the torture was the most fiendish, and spoke of evil intent and iniquitous power far beyond even their not inconsiderable capacities.

As I lay, struggling against my bonds, thrashing wildly in the hope of somehow breaking the chains that held me fast, I was haunted and taunted by a fiendishly devised simulacrum of my beloved.

The tall lean body that stretched itself next to mine and pressed oh so close bore the scent of him, accurately mimicked the feel of his strong capable arms about me, and the voice, the voice that whispered to me such sweet endearments and entreaties was unmistakably that of my dearest Watson.

But Watson was in England, with his Mary, gloriously alive and blessedly safe. I had made so very sure of that. He was not here with me in the bowels of hell; this was the one place he would never be found. His very goodness and purity of heart would bar his entrance, prevent his entrapment.

“_Shhhh…old cock,” _the voice whispered, siren-like, tempting my ship of self onto the rocky shoals, _“it’s all right. You must rest and relax; you’ll only hurt yourself more.”_

It was the most diabolical of deceptions, for Watson would never counsel me to yield to my tormentors, not he who had fought so valiantly at my side against Blackwood and any number of other scoundrels over the long years of our association.

But the stubbly cheek that laid itself against the side of my face, and implored so lovingly --oh but that this could be reality, _our reality _and _our destiny _\-- was so close an approximation, and I so wanted to believe the beautiful lies! 

__

_“My dearest heart, I am here. These are my arms around you, my breath on your cheek, come back to me. Come back to the one who loves you with all his heart…”_

 

Those words could not come from my dearest Watson, who even now must needs crooned such love words into his wife’s ear in the sanctity of their marriage bed, as was right and proper.

I drifted, comforted by the thought that my precious was far removed from the clutches of these sadists, steeled my resolve to ignore the phantom murmurings, to remove myself from their pernicious influence.

I traveled, in the realm of mind, to Tibet, and spent time with the dalai lama; I passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum. I explored in the guise of a Norwegian named Sigerson, conducted research in France into coal tar derivatives at Montpelier. In the privacy of my mind, I seemed to have escaped the clutches of my jailers at last. 

__

_“I. Will. Not. Say. Goodbye! Holmes, do you hear me?”_

 

I felt the hands of my beloved cup my cheeks, the solidity and reality of the contact shocking me from my chimerical peregrinations.

_“Damn it you **will **hear me!! You will not die! I will not allow it. I expect better of you, the best and wisest man I have ever known!”_

This was beyond enough. I determined that I must confront this duplicitous doppelganger, unmask the villain behind the plot to torture me into madness.

__

_“I am here, Holmes. Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”_

A cheek, wet with tears, pressed to my forehead, confounding me. What nemesis would weep so bitterly, and touch so tenderly: speak so fervently and with such conviction? Surely he could not want to be unmasked and vanquished?

It did not follow…　 

__

_“I am here. I love you. And I will NOT. Let. You. Go.”_

 

It took supreme concentration, and the decimation of whatever strength I had left to command. I forced myself through the pall of weakness, and eyelashes fluttering, I opened my eyes.

I was in a room that distinctly smelled of hospital, light filtered through pulled down blinds, and inches from my face, was the countenance of my love.

Watson was bending over me,

He was haggard and pale and had not shaved in quite some time. His normally tidy attire was in disarray, his hair stood on end as though he’d been running his fingers through it.

On his right cheek was a smudge of ink.

It could be no other. It was my Doctor. My beautiful, my cherished, my…

“W-Watson?” I whispered, disbelieving.

I was delivered from the depths of hell, transported to paradise.

Watson had come.

**

 

__

_Clark:_

 

The cry that emanated from Mr. Holmes’s hospital room was indeterminate in its aim, yet unmistakably stunned and urgent.

And it was the voice of Dr. Watson.

I exchanged a frightened look with Mr. Mycroft Holmes with whom I had breakfasted, and we both fairly ran to the room, hearts in throats, fearing the absolute worst.

We were, instead, greeted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes, eyes wide open, head clutched tightly to the chest of Dr. Watson.

There was light in the eyes, and life to the face. If his expression was one of profound confusion and surprise, it was to be understood and forgiven. Ear pressed to Watson’s chest, and the movement of his head thus restrained by the good doctor’s exuberance, he must have been bewildered and curious as to where he was and how he came to be there.

“Sherlock?!” Mycroft exclaimed beside me, “are you come back to us, brother? Watson, his fever?”

Watson released Mr. Sherlock to arms length, easing him back against his pillows, fussing over him, never once allowing the bond of touch to be interrupted.

“It has broken,” Watson turned a beatific smile in our direction, “only moments ago, but it has broken. And he’s spoken…”

I admit that my own joy was so boundless in that moment that I quite lost track of what words came after. I had never experienced a sense of relief that was so profound as to cause roaring in my ears and a certain lightness in my head.

When I regained control of my senses, Mr. Mycroft Holmes had pulled a chair close to his brother’s bedside, and was clasping his brother’s hand whilst Dr. Watson sat on the bed closer to the invalid and fairly beaming his relief and happiness.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes looked from one to the other, then his eyes--filled with the intelligence we knew so well -- fell on me.

“And Clarky too?” He said quietly, voice low and rough from long disuse. “You are all here, truly?”

“Yes Mr. Holmes. These long two weeks, we’ve been right here.” I sought to reassure that this was not further delusion. With the look of heartbreak no longer dominating those eyes, it seemed important for him to understand that he was not alone, and in fact, never had been forsaken.

“A fortnight?” Sherlock Holmes was seldom astounded, but he appeared so now, “Watson? You’ve been here that long, mother hen?”

Unashamedly, Watson drew a hand down his patient’s cheek, tracing the too sharp angles of the dear face. “Nearly, old boy. I was already _en route _from London, and less than a day behind your party at the end.”

“But your Mary! You can’t have been away from her so long!” Mr. Sherlock seemed alarmed, in that way of the ill and enervated when every small thing seems a mountain and every large thing overpowering

“Shhhh, Holmes. We have written each other and communicated by telegram. She sends her love to you, and her wishes for a speedy recovery. She is well, back in London, taking care of Gladstone and worrying about you.”

“But--”

“Brother,” Mr. Mycroft Holmes spoke with his usual authority, “I must insist that you listen to your doctor and not fuss so. All is well now that you are back with us. I trust you are quite finished leading us a merry chase and taking decades off my life?”

The younger Holmes blinked owlishly at his brother. “And you gone so long from Pall Mall? Whitehall? The Diogenes? I don’t understand it.”

“You aren’t required to, sir. Just know we are happy to have you back with us.” I spoke finally and with a conviction that I hoped would circumvent some of the lingering bewilderment. So close to the end of the brain fever, obsessive thoughts were a danger, as I well knew. For the sake of everyone present, there must be no relapse.

A shadow entered those expressive eyes, though it masked itself almost immediately. I fancied he was remembering recent events, the murder of Miss Adler, his struggle with Moriarty, the length of time that his active mind and intelligence had been dormant. To a man so determinedly in control of himself at all time, the last must have been a source of not inconsiderable disquietude.

It was not long before the patient was dozing, recumbent against the pillows, this time his slumber a healing one.

Unaccountably, it all became too much for me. We’d weathered a storm and emerged safe on a far shore, and the sun shone brightly, each beam replete with hope.

Dr. Watson was radiant with happiness, Mr. Mycroft relaxed and jovial.

And I, with the crisis past, was in imminent danger of losing all control.

I repaired from the room, and found myself a dark quiet corner, and though I should be ashamed to admit it, I wept unreservedly.

History did not always have to repeat itself. The broken hearted did not always have to die, praise be to Providence.

***

 


	12. "With devotion's visage..."

****

**Finality:**

**Chapter 12: Devotion’s Visage**

L.A. Adolf

> _“With devotion’s visage  
> And pious action, we do sugar o’er  
> The Devil Himself._
> 
> _Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III_

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I woke from a deep and restful sleep to the solid warmth of a body stretched out next to mine.

I didn’t open my eyes, savoring the nearness of what was probably Gladstone, but could be imagined as being my best beloved --for a little while at least.

I was disoriented, not sure how much of what came flooding back into my memory was true and what was dream-stuff. Was Watson being in Switzerland fantasy, wish fulfillment or was it true?

It made no sense that he --still a blushing bridegroom --would have come half way across the Continent to sit vigil at my bedside. None at all. Not given to being a man who willingly embraced self delusions, I dismissed it all as a fever dream.

Then I remembered that Gladstone wasn’t in Switzerland either, he’d been left with Mrs. Hudson, to be delivered to the Watson residence after my final departure from England.

And the body next to me, was too tall and broad to be canine. Gladstone also didn’t possess an arm long enough to be thrown across my midsection, nor would he have had the good sense to place that limb well clear of the wound that announced its presence momentarily as a burning ache.

I bit back a groan and levered my eyes open. If Mycroft had crawled into the bed with me, I really was going to give him a thrashing. Lazy as he was, he could certainly remove himself to some other bed than my own.

If one can be transported to bliss by the mere act of opening their eyes and beholding another, I was enraptured.

Dr. John Watson was sound asleep and snoring softly into my shoulder.

I sighed contentedly.

It was a precarious position, the hospital bed was certainly not designed for such occupancy, so I held very still that he might not fall from bed and injure himself.

I couldn’t allow myself to analyze what this might mean in a larger scheme, it was enough that he was real and here with me. I would take what I could get for as long as I could.

Still, it was an odd place for Watson to be lounging.

My complete enervation had the unfortunate side effect of creating a greater excitability of my anxieties.

I was suddenly seized with the idea that my dearest doctor might indeed not just be sleeping, but might, in fact, have suffered some kind of collapse himself. I was poised rather dangerously between not wanting to disturb my Watson, but being desperate to know he was all right.

Providentially, our good man Clark appeared in the doorway at that moment, arms laden with toweling and blankets.

“Clarky!” I whispered urgently, gesturing that generous soul closer to the bed. Certainly, if anyone would tell me the truth of Watson’s apparent insensibility, it would be Clark.

“Watson…is he…quite all right? You can tell me, I can tolerate any news.”

Clarky’s mouth might have twitched a bit under his great bushy moustache, but I was too preoccupied to care.

“He’s just tired sir. He hardly ever left this room, or your side, these two weeks gone. It’s just caught up with him is all.”

“You’re convinced of that, you are not a medical man, Clarky…” I persisted, unable to shake the feeling that more was wrong than was readily apparent.

“I know it to be true. He had a cot brought in you know, but he spent more time propped in that chair next to you, his head placed on the bed next to your hand as he caught what little sleep he could. We took as good care of him as you would have us, sir, your brother and I. Read him more than one lecture about him taking enough care of himself because neither of us was going to explain to you how he’d gone and made himself sick with worry and overwork.”

Clarky’s voice was even and soothing, and I could perceive the truth in his warm words.

“I could wake him sir and he could tell you himself…” Clarky offered after a moment.

“NO!--” My reaction was immediate and violent, although I managed to keep my voice under control so as not to disturb my sleeping dear. “Thank you Clark, for taking such good care of us all. I am forever in your debt.”

Clarky fairly blushed. “I’ve done nothing it wasn’t my pleasure and privilege to do Mr. Holmes.” He withdrew from the room, seeming oddly discomfited.

In spite of my best efforts at keeping still, Watson stirred, fathomless blue eyes opening and fair head raising from my shoulder. I mourned his rousing, he’d be up and on his dignity in a thrice, I was sure.

“Holmes…” his voice was sleep rough. It sent a thrill through to my heart, the familiar timber, the tone of sleepy concern, the rumble of affection. “how are you feeling, old boy?”

“Hmmmm?” I responded distractedly finding myself quite beyond being able to speak.

“Any pain? He persisted.

The wound in my side chose that moment to sit up and howl for attention, but I steadfastly ignored it. At least until I made the fatal error of shrugging, which incited it to riot. I could not control a flinch.

Watson frowned, sat up, then stood. “I’ll get you something for the discomfort,” he announced. I reached out to clasp his wrist before he could move away from the bed.

“No.” I said softly, “I’ve given all that up. For Lent. This year. No drugs.”

“There is no shame when you’ve a legitimate reason, your wound…” he objected, his features softening.

“Reminds me that this is real. Not a fever dream.” I said earnestly.

“You’ll have willow bark tea at least.” Watson looked at me closely, then shifted his eyes to the stack of towels and blankets Clark had brought into the room and placed on the chair nearest the bed. “But first things first, old cock.”

Watson bent low, reaching for something under the bed. I was appalled when he rose, a bedpan in his hands.

“Oh no!” I demurred swiftly, “no, no, I'm fine, really, don't have to do anything!”

Which was not quite right. Having caught sight of that dreadful appurtenance, I suddenly, desperately did have the urge…

"Holmes, it's been nearly a day. You have been drinking fluids and broth…”

"Really, I can tend to it myself!” I protested, an demoralizing flush rising in my face.

“It is only a bodily function and I **am **a doctor.” It was--save for the embarrassing subject matter, just like old times, the two of us at loggerheads about some small triviality.

“Just point me in the direction of the water closet." I struggled up on my elbows, anxious to prove my point.

A look of resignation crossed my dearest one’s face, “Of all the stubborn…fine, let’s get you sitting up and to the edge of the bed.”

Clark chose that moment to reenter the room, a pitcher of water in hand. Watson gestured him over to the bed, and to my immense humiliation, I was supported into a sitting position and maneuvered to the edge of the mattress.

A wave of profound dizziness overcame me, and had both of them not steadied me I would have pitched headlong to the floor.

“Let that stand as a lesson not to fight with me. On medical matters you cannot win. Now, will you listen to reason, or shall I ask Clark to further assist?”

I shot an earnest look at Clark, pleading for deliverance from further mortification. He cleared his throat.

“Perhaps a little privacy would not come amiss, sir?” Clark offered weakly. Never mind the man had found me naked at the Grand Hotel some months ago, there were simply some things …

“Mr. Holmes should be ready for his bath shortly, Clark. If you could be so good as to see to the warming of more water?” Watson relented. We both watched Clark beat a hasty retreat, then Watson held up the bed pan again.

Cursing my weakness, I leaned forward, resting my forehead against my good doctor’s shoulder. With a shaking hand I hitched up my nightshirt, and took hold of myself, and aimed for the vile receptacle.

*

__

_Dr. John Watson:_

“There, now isn’t that better?” I soothed my dearest Holmes, allowing a hand to stray to the back of his neck, even while I set aside the bedpan for later disposal.

The stubbly hair was strange to my touch, but I treasured the small nod against my shoulder. My poor darling was shuddering from the effort of sitting up and balancing on the edge of the bed, and my heart absolutely wrenched at the weakness so evident in this proudest and most self sufficient of men.

I was easing him into a more upright position when he retched piteously and threw up an amount of fluid, all that remained on his stomach after the long post prandial nap he’d so recently awakened from.

This small additional moment of debility seemed to complete his mortification. I eased him out of his nightshirt, set it aside for laundering , then settled him back on his pillows drawing the sheet up his bare chest. I turned away to deal with the contents of the bedpan, and when I returned to the bedside, the sheet had mysteriously been drawn up to cover my dear one’s face, only the top of the shorn head visible above it.

I heaved a put-upon sigh.

"Holmes, please come out from under the blanket."

“No!” The voice was petulant and emphatic, he sounded just like the trying child he could sometimes be, and at least, so close after a debilitating brain fever, it was to be expected and not censured. Patience and gentleness were called for above all else.

　

Mycroft chose that importunate moment to stick his head into the room.

"Reverting to childhood habits, Brother? What's he embarrassed about now?" The elder Holmes queried, completely unperturbed by the timing of his interruption .

I mouthed “bed pan” and mimed throwing up. Mycroft nodded sagely.

Sherlock Holmes, even though his face remained covered, apparently did not fail to perceive my nonverbal communications. He sank lower in the bed and the sheet rose up to cover his poor head completely.

“"Come now, brother, use your head. You are obviously too weak to take care of this business on your own, let your doctor help you and then we can move on to more pleasant matters."

“Such as a sponge bath.” I murmured.

If there had been any way for Holmes to have sunk through the mattress, he would surely have done so.

Clarky returned with a basin of warm water and wash cloths, sagely ignoring the juvenile posturings of the famous detective he held in such regard. He raised an eyebrow at me, as if to ask if I required further assistance, and when I responded with a shake of my head, he withdrew from the room, hooking Mr. Mycroft Holmes’s arm and urging him to quit the area as well.

Alone at last, I prepared my basin of water, adding the cool and the hot until the desired temperature was reached. I arranged small cloths and larger towels on the bedside table.

“We’ll have a nice bath,” I said softly, “then some of the willow bark tea and a little soup. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

There was no response from under the sheet, save what might have been a defiant toss of the head.

“We’ve been to the Turkish baths together Holmes, I’ve seen you in your entirety how many times in the ten years we’ve roomed together? It can’t be that.” I chided gently.

Again, no reaction, not even a head toss this time. I pressed on.

“I know that being weak and helpless is anathema to you. But you’ve been horribly ill, old cock, and there is no disgrace in needing help until you get your feet back under you again. And that will take time. I am here to help you and take care of you. Please allow me to help myself get over the shock of nearly losing you by doing for you what I can?”

It seemed to me that a muffled sob escaped from beneath the bed clothes, and certainly the hand that held a corner of the sheet fiercely shook a bit.

“ I know how hard this is. I remember being weak as a kitten after Maiwand, after the enteric fever. I could do _nothing_ for myself, less than you are able in fact. It is not an easy thing for a strong man to face or endure. I also remember coming back to England, and finding rooms in London, still sick and weak and out of sorts. And I remember the friend who was so patient and gentle with me, who put up with my moods and peccadilloes. Who generously folded me into his life and his work. And made me see brighter skies and better days. I don‘t feel I‘ve ever paid him back in full for that kindness. I wish he would let me attempt to do so in some small measure now.”

A corner of the sheet turned down and one brown eye could be seen, glistening, perhaps with moisture. I reached out and removed the bedding from his grasp.

With quiet certitude, I folded the sheet down, revealing the gaunt body beneath. I inspected the wound, removing the bandaging, checking the drainage and that assuring myself that there was no sign of infection. I cleaned this area first, with the freshest water and cleanest bathing cloths, applied fresh dressings.

Slowly, carefully and always, tenderly and soothingly, I moved a fresh cloth across the prominent ribs, the protuberant hip bones. Skimming private areas, thighs, calves and feet with yet another cloth, immediately drying them and pulling fresh bedding up over, to keep in warmth and restore a sense of privacy. I next devoted my attention to cleansing chest, back and arms, saving neck and face and head for last.

Holmes was relaxed and near somnolent when I put the last cloth away, toweled up the last bit of moisture and helped him don a fresh nightshirt.

But I could not let him sleep yet, it was important to get more nourishment into the emaciated body, to begin to restore some of the vigor so near completely depleted by his injury and infirmity.

He made a token protest when I went to spoon feed him, insisting on trying to grasp the utensil in his own thin fingers, but was both too weak and too drowsy to keep a firm hold. We compromised, he retaining his hold and I closing my own hand over his, guiding the sweetened meal of good Scottish oats and cream to his mouth.

I reveled in the exquisite pleasure of watching him take in sustenance, and keep it down, took an especial joy in wiping his beautiful, full lipped mouth, capturing a tiny bit of milk dribbled down his chin.

I watched Holmes sink down once again into a restful slumber, his face entirely at peace, and with the long draughts of the willow bark tea he had taken with his meal, largely pain free.

I was born for this, I mused distractedly, to take care of my beloved with tenderness and devotion. In that moment, at that time and in that place, I wanted nothing else or more, ever after.

We had come so close to losing everything dear and precious and exquisite. That we’d been delivered from the jaws of tragedy seemed too great a gift to ignore.

And yet, I had a wife in London, who loved me, and whom I loved, if not with the totality of my soul that the man before me commanded.

I put from my mind, the Damoclean circumstances which confronted us all, and took those hours to just be and be with the love of my life.

***

 


	13. "...a disinterested commerce..."

****

**Finality:**

**Chapter 13: "a disinterested commerce…"**

L.A. Adolf

_   
_

> _"Friendship is a disinterested commerce  
> between equals; love, an abject  
> Intercourse between tyrants and slaves."_
> 
> _Oliver Goldsmith, The Good Natured Man" (1768)_

_   
_ _

　

Mycroft:

_

We all breathed a collective sigh of relief. My brother was awake--at least for more and more time each day, and slowly regaining his health. The symptoms of the brain fever seemed to have retreated into the past, and the gunshot wound progressed in healing without suppuration.

I wondered at how much of the recent past he remembered. It seemed significant that he never mentioned Moriarty, nor expressed interest in who had shot him at the falls. Moreover, never once did he reference the late and largely unmourned Irene Adler.

Doctor Watson and I had discussed these facts. That my brother’s faculties were intact as far as intelligence and observational skills, motor function and so forth, seemed the most important thing, some small loss of recent memory would be a small price to pay.

If it _were _that simple. Which neither of us was convinced was the case.

Yet, we were fearful of relapse and so took great care in keeping mentions of traumatic events far out of my brother’s range of hearing. We gently probed his memory on his life before this sojourn to Switzerland to be sure that there was no fear of incipient brain damage from his illness. He remembered the Blackwood case and all previous, spoke of old acquaintances and former clients, knew the facts of his own life and Watson’s. Asked after Mrs. Hudson’s health and that of Gladstone.

And he continued to wonder why the three of us remained at his side in Switzerland. As though he could manage on his own, or that Clarky or I could abandon Doctor Watson to the complete weight of his care.

Clarky was content to stay; his family was well cared for in his absence and his detached duty continued by my own special request to the Home Secretary.

As long as telegram offices were available, I was able to conduct my own Whitehall business as easily from our lodgings in Leuk as from my office, a fact that had ever been true, but which I never broadcast for fear of being regularly hauled out of my comfortable routine by well-meaning associates and acquaintances. I might not be as comfortable in a Swiss hotel as in my own apartments or at the Diogenes, but for the sake of my brother, I was willing to stay the course.

The greatest mystery to Sherlock, and the one he seemed completely incapable of deducing, was how it was that Doctor Watson seemed content--and in fact, intent, on staying in Leuk as well. Further, the good doctor, when Clarky and I established ourselves in a hostelry near the hospital after Sherlock turned a corner health-wise, remained in attendance in the invalid’s room. The cot was never removed and being allowed use of the staff dressing rooms, laundry and sanitary facilities as a professional courtesy seemed to suit him fine.

Clarky and I both knew why, one had only to look at Watson as he beheld my brother, with his very heart and soul in his expressive blue eyes, but Sherlock paradoxically, either could not, or would not truly fathom the truth.

　

　

The next three weeks passed pleasantly enough, as a pattern was set and we all worked in perfect concert for the benefit of my sibling and his recovering health.

Sherlock was plied regularly with nourishing foods--first porridges and soups, progressing to more substantial fare, which led to an improvement in his appearance and an increase in the rate of his healing.

Not that such sumptuous feeding was without its battles.

"My old Scottish nurse would be in paroxysms of outrage at the very idea of good Scots oats, ruinated by the overenthusiastic application of sugar," Sherlock made a moue of disgust over his heavily augmented porridge one morning.

"Nonsense Brother! Nurse would have dumped an entire sugar bowl into your gruel had she thought it would put more padding on that spare frame of yours." I announced loudly, much to the amusement of both Watson and Clarky, whose moustaches began to twitch suspiciously.

Sherlock glowered at me balefully, and I merely smiled sweetly back at him. His natural prickly nature itself was a reliable barometer of his slowly improving health.

The shift of diet from liquid to solid also created further anguish for my poor dear brother, in that his weakness and debility was still such that he could only stand for mere moments at a time and it would be weeks yet before he was able to avail himself of a water closet--unassisted at least.

The bedpan became his nemesis and sworn enemy, no matter how necessary its continued use still was.

I came into the room in Watson’s wake one day, to find my brother’s bed empty and the good doctor glaring at something on the floorboards---his expression only just transforming from horrified shock to exasperated puzzlement.

Sherlock was on the floor, on hands and knees, crawling toward the necessary facilities that adjoined his room, the Swiss being fastidious in their plumbing design and arrangements.

"Are you trying to reopen your wound????" Watson’s voice held a very mild tinge of what _might_ have been hysteria. The provocation was certainly sufficient to warrant it.

"No!" An insouciant reply emanated from the far side of the bed.

"Then what are you attempting to do? I have told you, more than once, that you do not stir from this bed without one of us in attendance!"

"I just had to use the water closet, dear boy." Sherlock responded with a certain truculence. Part of me wanted to enter the room more fully, but I did not want to effect by my more prominent presence, the outcome of the confrontation that was afoot.

"And _I_ told _you_, that activity is restricted for now."

"This involves more than my bladder, dear boy." Sherlock said so quietly I had to strain to hear him.

"The bedpan has more than once use, Holmes." Watson said darkly. "If you will not allow me to aid you in these things, perhaps I shall ask Mycroft or Clarky---"

"NO!" The voice of my sibling fairly thundered up from the floor, "Watson, don’t you DARE!"

"Oh, they were quite willing and able when you were unconscious and delirious and had soiled yourself, and we had to clean you up…" Watson continued.

"And I did help Nurse change your nappies when you were but a tadpole, Brother," I finally made my way into the room and peered over the bed at the recalcitrant figure now lounging on his uninjured side on the floor. If a sheet had been near to hand, I fully expect he would have swathed himself in it.

In the end, a compromise was reached. Sherlock was helped back into bed, screens were placed all around and myself and Clark banished to the far end of the hospital corridor, where we could still hear Watson declaiming, as he aided my brother, on the benefits of regularity and the virtues of a good purgative.

Goldsmith had the right of it, Love truly "is an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves."

**

　

__

_Sherlock Holmes:_

It had been an altogether too traumatic day, all round.

I lay back against my pillows, feigning a doze, plotting to find a way to eliminate the Archenemy Bedpan from my hospital room. My first attempt--some days previous-- to pitch it out the casement had met with only temporary success.

It had been all I could do to struggle to the window sash and throw it open--heavily supporting myself every step at the way and fighting against the lancing pain in my side.

It was worth it all to be able to hurl the cursed object out into the open air. I’ve never felt a more glorious sense of accomplishment. Ever.

I’d even managed to lurch back to my hospital cot and crawl in all on my own, before the ruckus from the street started and Watson barreled into the room.

"HOLMES!" he’d roared, "you very nearly brained someone!!"

Watson is positively glorious when he’s angry. I’ve always thought so, which is why I’ve generally gone to such pains to needle him.

I had just formulated an ingenious plan involving the small street urchin I had observed selling flowers outside of my hospital room window, the rounding up of every bedpan in the hospital and the transfer of same for resale in the local black market, when Clarky entered the room.

"Dr. Watson, sir, a letter from Miss Mary for you," Clark announced, sotto voce, and I perceived, through slitted eyelids, the transfer of an envelope and Clarky‘s subsequent departure.

I knew it should not effect me, but I felt a small tightening in the vicinity of my heart.

Watson had been the recipient of various telegrams and letters in the days since I’d emerged from my insensibility, only two of which I had been able to determine had come from his bride. They had been brief but light hearted missives--at least the passages he had read out to me --involving Gladstone eating the Watsons out of house and home; and amusing anecdotes of domestic life in my good doctor’s absence.

He shared them out of a genuine goodwill, wanting to distract me when the pain of my healing wound became too great, or from the too real boredom of having nothing to do but convalesce.

He could not know that each word sent a dagger a little deeper in my heart.

He was with me now, his attention and compassion focused entirely on me and I basked in the glory of it; but I was all too aware that it was destined to be short lived. I knew that once I was back on my feet, he would be back to London, to Mary, and the blessings of his married life.

And I, I would be alone again. Bereft. Without a home, because Baker Street was nothing to me now but empty rooms, echoing too many memories, its warmth and soul long since removed to Cavendish Place.

"…Mycroft?"

My ears pricked up as Watson addressed my brother, hard on the heels of a chuckle over some small amusement he found in his wife’s communication. "Mary says she was visited by a solicitor, representing the late Irene Adler, looking for me, since he had called at Baker Street and discovered that Holmes was out of the country. Apparently something to do with a bequest…"

__

_Irene…!_

Her remembrance erupted in my brain, awakened from long suppression. Images flashed through my memory: Irene laughing, pouting, flirting, calculating. Irene collapsed to a Zurich street, her shirtfront soaked in blood, her voice gurgling as she tried to say my name one last time.

"…a crate of wine, comet vintage, delivered to Cavendish Place, a card attached addressed to Sherlock bearing the notation: ‘for old times sake.’. What do you make of that?" Watson was saying. I could barely hear him for the sudden roaring in my ears.

Mycroft harrumphed in disgust, "Even when dead, she makes herself a nuisance!" his voice, like Watson’s was pitched low and I had to concentrate to comprehend the words.

"Gladstone must agree, Mary says he lifted a leg on the crate after it was delivered…"

"Perspicacious pup! I shall have to reward him with a roast beef dinner when we return to London," Mycroft chuckled, clearly amused by the report of our dog’s frolics.

I had failed Irene. In letting her go free at the close of the Blackwood case, I had signed her death warrant, killed her as certainly as if I had fired the gun that pierced her heart.

I had murdered Moriarty avenging Adler’s memory. I had set out to bring him to justice and had instead set a course that led to my executing him in blood nearly as cold as his when he’d slain Irene.

I had determined to pay penance by dying myself. I’d tottered on the edge of that chasm, content to escape the misery of what my life had become.

I’d been shot.

For my sins, I had deserved every moment of sickness and torment that had overcome me, my own violation of the very principles of justice I swore to uphold demanded no less.

And yet here I was, alive, on the mend--and with nothing more to live for than I had in that dire moment at Reichenbach.

I had been recalled to life by love, a love that could never be mine own…

I was a foul thing, a soulless incubus, reanimate and unnatural.

A pain rent my brain, seeming to cleave my skull in two. I cried out in agony, body galvanized off the mattress and pillows, lurching blindly, tumbling from the bed in my desperate attempt to escape the agony of head and heart.

Distantly, I heard Watson cry out, felt his capable hands and strong arms reach out to catch me. I could not see him, my eyes refused to see, blinded by blazing pain and a soul deep self loathing.

*

__

_Watson:_

My heart juddered in my chest at the sound of Holmes crying out as he bounded up from the bed, clutching his head, his entire body convulsed in agony. I grabbed for him as he fairly toppled from the bed, levering him back up and down on the mattress. Mycroft overcame his own paralytic shock, and aided me in settling his brother back down.

"Holmes!" I cried, confused and aghast at the sudden change in his condition. He had been peacefully dozing one minute, screaming and writhing in pain in the next. "What is it? Your head?"

He could do little else but moan and bob a curt nod.

It could be anything. A relapse of the brain fever.

Apoplexy!

I needed more information!

"Holmes" I repeated his name, and he flinched away at the very sound of it, pressing his thin fingers against his eyelids as though to shut the light in the airy room out. I tilted his head back, looking into eyes that were unfocussed, unseeing. "Can you see me Holmes?" I asked fearful of the answer.

"No!" was the agonized reply. "only… jagged…. flashing… lights, pain…" The words were ground out, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he fought back nausea.

I whirled, grabbing an emesis basin from the bedside table, and placing it under his chin just as he vomited up his last meal.

Mycroft was looking at his brother, horrified, "Watson?"

"Migraine." I replied tersely.

"Relapse?"

"I don’t know. My bag, please Mycroft."

Holmes’s brother moved swiftly to retrieve it; taking one hand away from my steadying of my dearest friend, I fished in the Gladstone bag for a hypodermic and a vial of morphia.

As I prepared the injection --one that Holmes had rejected for wound pain some days before -- my hands shook.

A relapse of brain fever was almost invariably fatal. As was apoplexy, and either could have caused the migraine.

It could not be that we’d come this far only to lose Holmes now.

__

_It. Could. Not. Be._

_***_


	14. "...what dreams may come..."

** **

**Finality:**

**Chapter 14: "What Dreams May Come…"**

L.A. Adolf

_   
_

> _"For in that sleep of death  
> What dreams may come,  
> When we have shuffled off this mortal coil  
> Must give us pause.  
> There’s the respect that makes calamity of  
> So long life…"_
> 
> _Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III_

_   
_

　

__

_Mycroft:_

It became apparent as hours ticked by and we kept vigil at Sherlock’s bedside, that the migraine was not the result of organic causes but only took the route of seeming so as the path of least resistance.

Watson was too beside himself with worry to make note, but my brain seized upon the actual trigger. Lulled into a sense of false security, we had believed my brother to be deeply asleep when we’d discussed, however briefly and tangentially, the late, unlamented Miss Adler.

I better than anyone should have known that Sherlock was past master at playing charades, and that he had, in fact, not been asleep at all during our innocent consideration of the Adler bequest. Our worst fears about the effect her death-- and that of Moriarty and Moran-- might bear upon his convalescence had actually been realized, in spite of our great care to avoid any such circumstance.

Brother’s beleaguered brain and nerves were not yet recovered enough for his own memories to be safely restored. For good or ill, the human mind has an infinite capacity for hiding from us those truths that we cannot yet handle in our waking lives. In the fullness of time, I am sure, he would have remembered Adler, her death and the events afterward in their proper perspective. Realized that Adler’s impulsiveness had caught up with her fatally at last; that it was a matter of his own survival to have dispatched the evil professor as he had.

Our small talk had circumvented those natural barriers. There really was no blame for it to be assigned.

I could not bring this up to Watson, he was too distraught by half. But his medical ministrations would eventually lead him to the conclusion I had reached, that our fears for brain fever relapse were largely unfounded, and that apoplexy was so remote a possibility as to be immediately dismissed.

The injection of morphia gave my brother relief from the immediate pain and allowed him some hours of blessed oblivion. Physical causatives might have been dismissible, that did not mean that there would not be a very real and very steep price to be paid in emotional and mental consequences.

It was hard on the heels of this epiphany that a thought already forming as my brother had steadily recovered some of his health burst forth.

The hospital had long since done all it could for Sherlock and he was, if not back on his feet precisely, at least well enough for a small change of scene.

The hostelry where Clarky and I shared a room was not to be considered, even so pleasant a public house was not an ideal environment in which a convalescence should progress. I contracted, therefore, for the hire of a small chalet on the edges of Leuk. Near enough the hospital to be quickly accessed if necessary, it was pleasantly bucolic and isolated enough that my brother could continue his recovery in privacy not possible in his current environs.

*

　

__

_Watson:_

I was somewhat taken aback at Mycroft’s suggestion that his brother be transferred out of the hospital and into private quarters. He broached the idea to me after a wakeful night spent sitting vigil at Holmes’s bedside as he slept, deeply insensible from the morphia, but blessedly free from the agony of the migraine.

There had been no return of fever, and my Holmes’s vital signs remained indicative of an unremarkable course of recovery from his prior illness.

Neurologically, Holmes seemed fully intact. Involuntary reactions tested in a full physical examination whilst he was insentient from the drug revealed nothing more than might be expected from the depressive qualities of the morphine itself.

Reassured on that level, at least, I argued with myself that the root causes of migraine were not well understood. It was possible that the brain fever had resulted in a subtle form of damage that would forever after mark my beloved as being prone to crippling megrim attacks. I had to hope, fervently, that this would not prove to be the case.

I had decided to approach Mycroft with the intention of inquiring if his brother had ever evinced recurring headaches in his childhood. It was possible if so, that his recent illness had excited a tendency that had long lain dormant.

Mycroft, re-entering the room and taking a seat next to me at his brother’s beside, stated he could remember none such. Therefore, my brain was actively engaged in considering other causes (for example the number of times that Holmes took a blow to the head in his line of work--as recently as the cold cock he’d suffered against the ship’s bulkhead some months ago) when he voiced his suggestion.

"Surely you can see the benefit of the tranquility of private quarters. I cannot help but think that my brother’s attack might not be, in part, due to excitability based on the fundamental inability to completely relax in a hospital environment."

His line of reasoning was sound, I had to admit. I had not been sanguine about Holmes staying here--even in this private room paid for by his brother --for the full course of his recuperation, but we had not yet reached a point where the matter had become imperative.

In wake of the migraine attack, I had certainly not yet considered that there might be an environmental component. But given Holmes’s customary high strung nature and his abhorrence of overexposure to strangers and casual contact, it made a certain amount of sense.

"I sent Clarky out to make inquiries and he’s found the most charming pied-à-terre, not three streets away…quite princely in appointments and features. We’d all four of us fit quite comfortably without rubbing together too closely, Sherlock would have the peace and quiet he needs, and a private water closet right off the master bedroom. I should think he would welcome that especially." Mycroft’s persuasive capacities were at full throttle.

I put up a hand to forestall the litany of real property virtues. "He is your brother, and you ultimately bear the responsibility of all decisions about his care, Mycroft."

"I would not shut you out of any determination made in the best interests of my brother’s welfare." Mycroft sniffed, although I could detect no real umbrage behind the statement.

Smiling was the very last thing I felt like doing at that moment, but I did, for Mycroft that was really a very remarkable admission. "I have no objections. See to the rental."

"I already have. We can move in as early as tomorrow."

Mycroft Holmes was easily as exasperating as his sibling.

*

__

_Clark:_

It was a sad thing, to see the change wrought in Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

The shock of the megrim attack was bad enough, but the utter devastation our Mr. Holmes in the days that followed was harder still to bear.

He’s generally known as a difficult man, but I had never found him to be so. I had always admired his keen intelligence, and in getting to know him better through our association via Scotland Yard, been privy to his sly sense of humor, and his genuine capacity for kindness and generosity. They were not virtues he would have liked bandied about, but they were part of his personality as surely as the incisive insight and mercurial temperament for which he was more famous.

In the wake of our almost losing him, it had been a particular joy to see his joie de vivre somewhat revive in the time between awakening from the brain fever and that first migraine attack. The byplay between himself, Dr. Watson and his brother had been entertaining and heart warming. And I must admit such a deep sympathy with his dislike of the bedpan, that I had been willing to aid and abet its avoidance in any way I could have. I’d just not been given the chance.

As we prepared to make the transfer from hospital to private house, his change in demeanor was most evident. He was complacent to the point of diffidence, eating without comment whatever was placed in front of him, and resigning himself to every indignity his old nemesis had offered. He was withdrawn to the point of near catatonia, unable to be drawn out by his brother or myself, and most mysteriously not even by Dr. Watson who alternated cajoling with needling in an attempt to bring about characteristic Holmesian reactions.

He spoke little, and slept more and more of his time away, far beyond the need for bodily rejuvenation.

His physical condition did improve, albeit it at a slower rate than it had for those blessed three weeks when all had seemed happy and hopeful. He took no joy in increased physical activity, evinced none of his former chafing at inactivity.

The migraines themselves persisted, though not with quite the same violence as the original attack. He refused further doses of morphia when one was upon him, preferring instead to will himself to sleep through the worst of the symptoms.

The sick headaches also delayed moving into the rented chalet by two days past Dr. Watson’s agreement to the plan. The good doctor, understandably, wanted to spare no effort in availing himself of the resources of the hospital and the expertise of fellow staff in eliminating an organic cause for the attacks. By the time we left the hospital for the determination was universal that whatever their cause, relapse, apoplexy and aneurysm could be dismissed.

We took a carriage from the hospital to our new temporary residence.

Dr Watson hovered nearby as I lifted Mr. Sherlock down from the conveyance and into the wheeled chair Mr. Mycroft had procured for his brother.

As was his usual, and probably largely unconscious habit, Mr. Sherlock took quick and comprehensive note of all about him, examining the grounds leading up to the front door, the freshly constructed ramp that allowed his chair easy access, and once inside, the distinctive layout of the building. Quite unlike our London homes, this house had all the most important rooms on the main level, including the master bedroom and bath that would be Mr. Sherlock‘s own. But his observations were perfunctory and silent, none of his quick wit was in evidence. He might have been rolled into a palace or a hovel, it seemed all of the same piece to him.

I was preparing to give him a tour of the dwelling, when Dr. Watson gently eased me away from the handles of the wheeled chair, and took on the duty himself.

Watson’s demeanor was touching, and, I suspect, somewhat unconscious in that he spoke in quiet coaxing tones, remarkable in their complete gentleness, in that same mode of voice that one would speak to a pre-verbal child. It was precisely the manner of speaking that a fully restored Mr. Sherlock would have bridled violently against. As it was, there was no change in the great man’s outward mien at all.

I watched them disappear down a hallway, Dr. Watson taking such delicate care of his dear friend, that I could not help but sigh.

Mr. Mycroft Holmes came to stand beside me, placing his hand on my shoulder and gripping solidly, communicating his own shared concern.

Yet when he spoke, it was obvious that he was formulating further plans, not content to leave the state of things as they currently were.

"I wonder, Clarky, if you’d mind sending a couple of telegrams for me?" He asked quietly, withdrawing from his pocket foolscap with the text of same already jotted out . "And surely, somewhere in this village, there must exist a music shop or pawnbroker with a violin to let or sell? Would you be so kind as to make inquiries?"

I turned my gaze to Mr. Mycroft Holmes’s wise face and smiled broadly. "It would be my pleasure, sir."

*

__

_Sherlock Holmes:_

The nightmare was the same one I’d had for several nights in a row, ever since the transfer from hospital room to private home had been announced to my deep disinterest. I have no doubt that the change in our living arrangements was largely to blame.

Leaving the rarified atmosphere of a house of healing for the close confines of a private dwelling was a milestone, a step closer to that ultimate day when Watson, tired of playing nursemaid to his former fellow lodger and erstwhile partner in the macabre, would return to his more satisfying domestic life in London.

__

_Mary was there, laughing and embracing her husband in transports of joy, tossing a possessive glare in my direction, which announced plainly, "He is mine. I have taken and claimed him, just as I promised that night at the Royale" without having to utter a single word aloud._

__

_I watched as Mary leaned close, whispering something in her beloved‘s--**my** beloved‘s! --ear._

_His immediate reaction was one of stunned surprise, he reeled a bit, then his handsome, noble face split into a grin and he enfolded his wife in an ecstatic embrace, one hand trailing down to tenderly hover over her abdomen._

_I, on the other hand, was shouting my lungs out, calling Watson’s name desperately, trying to follow after him, but finding my feet caught in quagmire. He seemed not to hear me. Or if he did, he ignored me completely, attention so focused on his wife that he could spare nothing for anything else, not even me._

I started myself awake with my own sobbing and plaintive wailing.

"Shhhh, now," Watson’s voice was sibilant, shushing into my ear in the darkness. I was not sure in that instant if his voice was real or imagined, either way it was less a balm and more pure torment.

"It’s all right. I am here. All is well, my darling boy."

Real then, I realized, as my eyes tried unsuccessfully to focus in the utter blackness of this unfamiliar bedroom.

I wanted to believe him, but I could not. Even as he put his arms around me and drew me close, murmuring words of reassurance and comfort in the darkness, I knew better.

That Watson was there was a temporary thing, a slight bit of sticking plaster laid over a severed artery. It was not enough, never would be enough and would be gone altogether far too soon.

***

 


	15. "one absolutely unselfish friend..."

** **

**Finality:**

**Chapter 14: "one absolutely unselfish friend"**

L.A. Adolf

　

_   
_

> _"The one absolutely unselfish friend that a man can  
> have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts  
> him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous,  
> is his dog. …when all other friends desert, he remains."_

_   
_

George Graham Vest, Speech in the Senate (1884)

　

　

__

_Mycroft:_

The violin lay on a table near the parlour window, gathering dust.

It was not a Stradivarius it was true, but a good, solid and serviceable instrument all the same.

"Brother, would you not play something?" I asked the figure sitting huddled in the wheeled chair, gazing disconsolately out the paned glass.

"_You_ play something!" The beloved voice was low, labored, as though the mere effort of forming words was beyond his level of energy.

I grimaced, looking with a tender exasperation at my sibling’s back. If only I could. Sherlock had ever been the musical one. I could plink out a serviceable tune on a piano, an appointment which this house did not possess, but it had always been my brother with the music in his soul.

The move to this charming house had been accomplished more than a week past, and the decision had proved a wise one on a practical level at least. We had engaged a competent, if uninspired Swiss cook to see to our meals, but were otherwise sequestered away from the interference of strangers. I know that the serenity of private quarters was a relief to myself, for I did not tolerate easy contact with strangers any more comfortably than my brother--in fact, markedly less so --one reason I kept to the Diogenes club when not in my apartments or office.

My brother also seemed to relax more in the new environment, the migraines were less frequent, his nervous exhaustion improved somewhat. That he occasionally was victim to nightmares was a fact that escaped no occupant of the house, the shouts that rent the watches of those nights, might likely have been heard as far a-field as the hospital we’d left.

Watson was never far away, most often still in the same room with Sherlock. The Swiss chalet was large enough that we all had separate sleeping quarters, but Watson rarely utilized his own, opting instead for the use of an Army cot in my brother’s room, and more often than not, he could be found occupying half of the large double master bed.

How such complete and utter devotion could be apparent to all of us and so completely lost on the its object--who ironically was lauded over two Continents as the greatest living detective --was a complete and total enigma.

*

__

_Watson:_

I had taken to resuming a long standing habit, during those last weeks in Switzerland, of a twice daily constitutional.

The glories of early summer in that beautiful country were substantial, but largely unheeded by me. I walked for one reason only, it seemed, to work off stress, worry and an overabundance of nervous energy that seemed to have transferred from my dearest Holmes of old to me.

I was, of course, intimately familiar with his black moods, having lived and coped with them for over a decade, and as horrible as they were, they were a known quantity. The strange hopelessness that overtook my dear now was different in its fundamentals, although I could not have enumerated how.

And I knew only one way to fight it --a case was out of the question for obvious reasons; allowing him access to recreational use of drugs counterproductive -- and that was to love him as best as I knew how.

I lavished him with attention and affection, went to especial pains to engage him--albeit usually fruitlessly --in far ranging conversations which invariably ended up one sided save for those times when Mycroft and Clarky joined in to keep momentum sustained. As he became increasingly --if slowly -- stronger, I accompanied him on perambulations about the house and grounds, urging him onward and praising him extravagantly as his stamina and strength increased, almost in spite of itself.

His favorite pastime was still sleeping, and when not urged to exercise, to sitting in the patient’s chair he now needed less and less.

I had applauded Mycroft’s acquisition of a violin, hoping that Holmes would be unable to ignore what had formerly been a siren call to make music. It was particularly discouraging that he ignored it completely. I knew, deep in my heart, that if only he would pick up the instrument, he would find comfort in its plaintive notes, that he could exorcise the demons dragging his soul downward.

I sat at the desk in the study one afternoon, having just returned from my constitutional, staring at a blank piece of stationery.

I had performed this same ritual often in the last days, the end result being the same.

I’d never had a problem writing a letter to Mary before, in fact had been writing them regularly since the fight for Holmes’ life had begun. They’d been neither long nor romantic, often just a jotting of details that served to give me some feeling of control --however delusional -- over his care and treatment and the ultimate outcome of same.

But this letter was different. And while I was a man who seldom doubted his own bravery --in battle or in the pursuit of criminals at least --it was cowardice that kept the page blank, and the emotions roiling in my heart unspoken.

The day was approaching when Holmes would be well enough to travel, and a return to England could be contemplated. It was a few weeks away yet, for his energy remained frangible and the migraines problematical, but the day was coming.

And I knew one thing with utter certainty: when we did return to London, it could not be to the status quo.

The near loss of my beloved had galvanized my devotion and commitment to him. Whatever lay between us now, whatever gulf might still exist from the time before when he seemed tormented by my presence, it did not matter. My life, my destiny was with him.

My marriage had been, in its fundamentals, a mistake, a desperate grasping after a normal and acceptable life which conformed to the expectations of society, in spite of my eschewal of them. I held Mary in the greatest affection --even love--but it was not the soul-bond that my relationship with Holmes had ever been, was not as life affirming and sustaining in its particulars as that which my beloved and I shared, even at our most contentious.

How did I explain to Mary that I could not return to Cavendish Place and to her? That my life and destiny were as ever, to be found at 221B Baker Street--or wherever Holmes might domicile?

My courage failed me once again. I bowed my head over the blank paper. I had time yet before a decision had to be made, maybe ---

My focus was shattered in that moment by a commotion at the front door. The voice of our Swiss cook and housekeeper raised questioningly, and the wild barking of a dog, were somewhat muffled by the closed study door. I stood, tossing the pen to the side, grateful for a chance to abandon my distasteful duty once more.

I strode from the study and down the hallway, rounding a corner into the foyer.

And was almost immediately bowled over by the not insubstantial body mass of an English bulldog.

And not just any bulldog, but Gladstone! Between energetic lashings of the great beast’s tongue and the frenetic pawing of his great feet, the unexpected, but very welcome visage of Mrs. Hudson materialized.

**

__

_Clark:_

I dashed over to aid Dr. Watson immediately, neither Mrs. Hudson or myself had anticipated that Gladstone’s greeting would be so excited and energetic --the dog not being known in times past for his physical animation.

Mrs. Hudson sawed on the leash, whilst I made bravely to haul the hound back so that Dr. Watson might be able to regain his breath at least. It was a relief to see the Doctor’s face--so dour had it been of late with worry and care--split into a grin, watch him sit up and wave away the containment of his pet. In that moment, I do not know which was more glad to see the other, Gladstone or his master, who mutually embraced each other with great excitement.

Mr. Mycroft and I had kept the forthcoming arrival of Mrs. Hudson and the dog between ourselves, feeling that a surprise would not be amiss in what had become a very solemn and sad household. Mr. Sherlock’s brother had evinced the belief that whatever ailed his sibling might be further remedied by some good solid English cooking, and the sight of familiar faces from home. I could not argue any differently, we’d all reached an impasse regarding what could next logically be done to restore Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s spirits and relieve Dr. Watson’s strain.

Mr. Mycroft had emerged from his room and was standing back, a broad smile creasing his face as Dr. Watson picked himself up, embraced Mrs. Hudson, greetings and explanations exchanged during which the dog leash was dropped. The elder Holmes shrugged when credit for her presence and that of Gladstone was laid at his feet.

It was as heartwarming a scene as any I’ve been privileged to witness. And if our attention drifted away from a growing restlessness of the dog, we could,I think, be forgiven.

There are times when you observe something, but do not follow it, and this was one of them. The great head of the bulldog had been busily sniffing the air for some moments, the massive body tensing with anticipation. I saw this, Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson and Mr. Mycroft saw this, but not one of us gave it a moment’s notice.

Until, with an excited grunt, Gladstone launched himself, artillery shell-like down the hall and in the direction of the master bedroom.

Mr. Sherlock had laid down for a nap after his lunch, and was even now still sleeping. We’d taken to leaving the master bedroom door ajar, for quick entrance, should nightmares or megrim attacks make themselves apparent, and we made special care of keeping to quiet pursuits while he napped.

There was no impediment to the dog repeating his behavior towards Dr. Watson, and launching himself on the slumbering detective. Whilst the gunshot wound had closed, there was yet danger of internal hemorrhage if a blow was struck in its vicinity.

Gladstone could unwittingly, unintentionally, cause considerable damage.

We clambered down the hallway in the dog’s wake, bracing ourselves for an agonized yelp of pain.

Which oddly never came.

Instead, as we shouldered each other out of the way, Mrs. Hudson bringing up the rear of three panicked men ,and tumbled into the room, we were greeted with a singular sight.

Gladstone had jumped up on the bed, it was true, but any fears that he might have done damage in his enthusiasm were for naught.

For the great beast was, even as we watched, hitching himself along the counterpane incrementally, and with the greatest care I had ever seen in man or beast. As we looked on, his nose snuffled tenderly into the hand that lay open, palm upward on the bed, Mr. Sherlock Holmes positioned on his good side, facing toward us, his other arm held protectively against his wounded flank. Gladstone whined softly, and one great paw reached out with utmost care and laid itself on the wrist of the hand he still nuzzled.

The Great Detective’s brows drew together as he struggled toward wakefulness, and his eyes, when they opened, were by turns confused and consterned. He must have thought himself in the throes of yet another nightmare for a moment, before realizing that the delicate lick from the huge tongue of his vision was real. And wet.

Whatever our fears, they vanished completely, four hearts soaring, as a great smile, the likes we had not seen on that face for too many months--never mind weeks--enlivened the pale, worn face.

Mrs. Hudson yanked on the sleeves of Mr. Mycroft and myself, pulling us back into the hallway, leaving the Detective, The Doctor and the Dog to their reunion.

***

　


	16. "what cannot be expressed"

**Finality:**

**Chapter 16: “what cannot be expressed”**

L.A. Adolf

_"Music speaks what cannot be expressed,  
_ _soothes the mind and gives it rest,  
_ _heals the heart and makes it whole,  
_ _flows from heaven to the soul."_

Anonymous__

_Watson_:

I watched entranced as Gladstone slithered, closer to the now awake Holmes, whose smile had shifted somewhat from blazingly brilliant to tenderly indulgent.

That he was happy to see “our” dog was self evident.

If I had, for a moment, entertained the idea that the arrival of Gladstone and Mrs. Hudson might be the miracle we had all hoped for, and that Holmes might rise from his bed, restored, and ready to meet life head on again, I was disappointed.

It was, of course, too much to truly hope for.  Instead, as I watched, the great beast, with a care that nearly put my own skills as a doctor to shame, shifted his bulk away from Holmes’s outstretched hand and proceeded to zero in on the location of the healing gunshot wound, scenting delicately at the hidden defect without coming close enough to touch. Gladstone then sniffed the length of Holmes’s prone body, moving upward from side to head, until they were face to face.

The dog looked solemnly right into his master’s eye, a look that was returned with equal gravity.  Then the animal lavished Holmes with a lick to his cheek, sighed gustily and laid himself carefully down beside the recumbent detective.  Holmes’ arm left his own side and rested on Gladstone’s flank instead, petting softly.

Within moments, both were asleep.

I withdrew from the room, feeling strangely envious that Gladstone, by his very presence seemed more a balm to my beloved than did I myself.

*

 

_Mycroft_:

The Swiss cook was dismissed with great thanks and two weeks wages after Mrs. Hudson announced that she had not come all this way to not take care of us all.  She set about her busman’s holiday with great enthusiasm and had barely settled herself into the bedroom that Dr. Watson had never quite settled into before announcing her intention to shop the town marketplace.  With Clark in tow, she was soon on her way, foraging for our needs.

Watson had emerged from my brother’s bedroom a few minutes after we had all repaired to the living area of the house, reporting that Sherlock and his dog were peacefully asleep in each other’s arms. 

There was both relief and irony to be found in that statement, but I remarked on neither.  Watson withdrew to the study once more, and for many hours, silence reigned in the house.

 **

_Sherlock Holmes_:

The soft knock on the door roused me from a slumber that had become more habit than necessity.  Gladstone grunted and awakened as well, sniffing the air and rumbling questioningly.

“Come,” I called out softly, pulling myself up to sit against the headboard, the head of the noble Gladstone settling in my lap.

That the dog was in Switzerland, I had accepted without question or consideration, when Mrs. Hudson stuck her head in the door, it occurred to me how slothful my brain had become that I had not consciously surmised her presence as well.

“Nanny!”  I said provocatively, “---are you so lacking in victims to poison in London that you had to make a trip to the Continent to find me?"

The good woman’s face, which had displayed a certain trepidation, relaxed into a genuine smile. She stepped into the room, a small tray held before her, and crossed over to the bedside.

“Good English cocoa,” she announced, “none of this fancy Swiss stuff.  And yes, I’ve not had a good go at strychnine in anyone’s food since you left, and I am rather missing it.”

 “I find myself in the uncomfortable position of needing to thank you for bringing Gladstone to me, Nanny.  I have missed this old beast.”  I was careful to avoid her direct gaze, fixing my eyes instead upon the dog and scratching his ears.

“Well, he was all for coming on his own, but the railroad officials would have none of it.  And I’ve brought you something else as well. Now drink some of this cocoa, and I shall fetch it. “The damnably confounding woman picked up the cup, handed it to me, watched me drink half of it down--she did have a way with the drink severely lacking in the local brew --then removed herself from the room.

It seemed the least to do in appreciation of her duty as chaperon of Gladstone, to drain the cup before her return and to indulge whatever whimsy had her coming right back, some object hidden behind her as she stepped through the door.

“I thought you might be missing this, Mr. Holmes. So I took the liberty of bringing it along as well.”

The sight of the violin case made my breath catch in my throat. Before leaving London I had arranged with a pawnbroker to sell my Stradivarius, not seeing any future need for the instrument. It was surely too much to hope ---

Quite in spite of myself, I reached out and took the case from her hands. It **was** the same case, I observed, recognizing the small scratches and scuffs that gave it a distinctive and recognizable aspect.

I flipped open the latches.

And there it was. The very instrument I had purchased on Tottenham Court Road for fifty-five shillings so long ago.

In that moment, I didn’t consider how it came to be back in my hands, and to whom I owed the debt of at least five hundred guineas for its worth at sale.  I did have the presence of mind to look up into Nanny’s eyes, and whilst I could not very well break our longstanding habit of sharp words and lashing wit, I fancy that she did see that there was genuine gratitude in my heart.

 And so it must have been, for she smiled, and casting an approving look at my empty cocoa cup, placed it back on the tray and turned back toward the door, pausing briefly before disappearing once again.

“Will you be joining us for dinner, Mr. Holmes? Or would you prefer a tray here in your room?”

“A tray Nanny, if you must practice your noxious arts on me.  I find it necessary to make re-acquaintance with another old friend and I require some privacy.”

“Very well Mr. Holmes.” 

I extracted the violin from its case with reverence, plucking at strings to test its tune.  As ever, sweet and true notes met the movement.

My eyes seemed to swim for a moment, had there been another in the room, I would have blamed poor Gladstone for poisoning me with toxic flatulence.  But we were alone, the Stradivarius, the dog and I, and there was no need.

I brought the beloved instrument to my shoulder, and drew the bow across the strings. 

The reality of the world--of the obvious reason for the dog and the violin, Watson must be preparing even now to return to his Mary --faded away, and for the first time in too long, the music became my all, my sustenance, my surcease.

I played.

 

**

 The notes that floated out of the master bedroom, into the hall, and throughout the spacious Swiss house were plaintive, punctuated by pain and poignancy.

In the parlour, Mycroft Holmes lifted his head up from the dispatch he’d been reading, his eyes closing as the music reached him, allowing his appreciation of the music’s message to fill his senses.  He smiled, keeping eyes closed, setting aside his report. Time enough for government business later, now was the time to take measure of the state of his brother’s soul and heart by the method of the music he made; to possibly find a solution to the repair of both.

In the great room, Clark looked down at the disregarded Swiss violin with which Mr. Mycroft and himself had tried to tempt the Great Detective.  He was not a bad fiddler himself, he wondered if Mr. Sherlock might be approached for instruction in playing this instrument in the proper way as he continued to convalesce.  It would be so wonderful to be able to make music such as what he heard now, no matter how sad and heartbroken the notes might sound.  And perhaps, in requesting his assistance, he could offer up some small measure of distraction for the man who truly thought too much.

In the study, Watson paused in signing the letter he must send his wife.  It would shatter her world and that was regrettable, although he would see to it that her reputation suffered as little as possible in the wake of a scandalous divorce--since regardless of the reasons, in this modern age, all divorce was scandalous.

There was no choice.  in order to make right the utter destruction of the universe of the one being he l truly loved more than life itself, it was necessary to inflict pain on another, more innocent. 

There was an infinitesimally small comfort in the fact that Mary had learned, early on, that her hold on her husband‘s heart was not exclusive.  He could only hope that the knowledge would see her through the agony to come.

He forced himself to continue; crossing the “t” in his surname, and laying the pen aside.  He folded the stationery sheet and slipped it into the addressed envelope.  He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes.

The music of Holmes’s Stradivarius reached him, telling him in notes, phrases and tempo what his beloved could not say in words.  The anguish, the pain, the hopelessness that so filled Holmes’s spirit came  flooding into the doctor’s soul, illuminating understanding even as it broke the strings that attached John Watson to his own beating, bleeding heart.

All he had ever hoped for in life was to heal and to help. That by his very existence he had managed to cause so much grief to those he loved, was insupportable.

Moisture gathered in John Watson’s eyes, unbidden and unconscious.  As he wrestled with the agony that filled his heart and sickened his soul with regret, the tears overflowed and streamed down his face.

And the music wept with him.

 

**

 

 


	17. "never loved sae blindly..."

**Finality:**

**Chapter 17: “never loved sae blindly”**

L.A. Adolf

 

> _Had we ne’er loved sae kindly,  
> Had we ne’er loved sae blindly,  
> Never met – or never parted –  
> We had ne’er been brokenhearted._
> 
> _Robert Burns, Ae Fond Kiss, st 2_

 

_Watson:_

I was drawn into the kitchen by the sound of crying.

Mrs. Hudson was putting the last dish on Holmes’s tray, and dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief. As I approached, she heaved a heavy sigh, and seemed to choke back a sob.

“Mrs. Hudson, are you quite all right?”  I asked, knowing full well how idiotic that sounded. Of course she wasn’t. No more than I was. Or Holmes was for that matter.

“Doctor!  I’m just being a silly old woman.  The music.  Mr. Holmes. His…his hair…”  Mrs. Hudson subsided into tears and it was no small wonder. Travelling from London, dog in tow, setting herself up as caretaker to us all, she was overtired and needed rest, not to be immersed in the sadness and drama of this home away from home.  I reached out and pulled her into my arms.

“There, there. I know. It was necessary at the time, he was desperately ill with fever. But he really is better now, improving every day, in fact. Your coming, bringing Gladstone and his Stradivarius, he’ll be right as rain in no time, I promise you.”  I soothed as the poor brave woman sobbed into my shoulder.

“I knew he wasn’t coming back.  Not when he went out of his way to be kind to me those last few days and left his rooms so clean and tidy.  He paid the rent up through the end of the year you know, as if to say he _would_ be back. But I knew better.”

“I know,” I said, remembering my trip to Baker Street the day after the misdirected trip to Newhaven, the message its emptiness and order conveyed.  “He intended to die going after Moriarty.”

I hadn’t intended to say that aloud to spare the good woman’s feelings, but my own pain seemed to render me careless of creating it in others. 

“He almost did, didn’t he?” She pulled back from my arms and looked deeply in my eyes, her words less question than statement.

“Yes. He **was** dying, as sure as I am standing here now. He was fatally weak and sick and he was ready.  I wouldn’t let him go.  He hates me for it now.”  Shamefully, I seemed to possess no filters to prevent me from saying whatever thought flitted across my brain.

“Oh Doctor, you don’t believe that do you?  Not really?  He could never hate you, not loving you as much as he does. You** know** that.” The kind woman was all assurance and affection, not an iota of accusation to be found anywhere in her tone.

“He should hate me. I destroyed his life, his hope.  Ran off when he needed me.  Then I come marching back in when he’s made peace with the leaving of  his wretchedness and dragged him back into the same misery.”  The taste of the truth that I had evaded for so long was bitter in my mouth.

"Stop that right now, Doctor! I'll not hear another such word from you!"  Mrs. Hudson remonstrated harshly, grabbing me by my shoulders and shaking me. "We both know the black moods he falls into, and the vitriol he feels towards the world and himself when in its grasp."

“But he wanted to **_die_** Mrs. Hudson…. I can’t forget that! There is no escaping my part of the blame for that!  You and I both remember that night after the close of the Blackwood case.  If Mycroft hadn’t been there…if you hadn’t been able to help cut him down…”  I could not suppress the involuntary shudder that ran through my body at the memory. 

Mrs. Hudson was tender in her regard, placing a hand alongside my cheek, and patting gently, comfortingly.

"Well then, we'll just have to convince him that that was a right stupid idea, then_ and now_ won't we?  And when he gets to feeling better, he'll see things our way."

“But how?”  I asked plaintively, relying on this good woman’s strength, since to my utter shame I seemed to possess none of my own. 

"With love, Doctor,” she stated simply.

My expression must have reflected my doubt. I had been pouring all the love I knew how to give into my dearest, to no good effect. 

"Mr. Holmes has known precious little of love to be sure, and he isn't accustomed to having to share what he has had," Mrs. Hudson admitted, as though reading my thoughts.

That much was true. I desperately needed, at some point, to sit down with Mycroft and see if I could pry from him, the sort of upbringing he and his baby brother had received.  As private as my Sherlock, it might be an exercise in futility, but the illumination that might be gained would be well worth it.

“So we must remind ourselves to demonstrate it to him in the only way he understands.”  Mrs. Hudson continued thoughtfully. “And if love isn't enough, then perhaps a swift kick in the arse might work, as well."  Mrs. Hudson continued after a long pause.

"Mrs. Hudson!!" I exclaimed, genuinely shocked that the woman who had been crying over Holmes’s shorn hair not five minutes ago, would be suggesting such a course of action.

“He doesn’t know what to do with too much gentleness, you know that, and he hates like the very devil to be treated with too much kindheartedness. What he needs is what any child needs, a firm hand and to know where the boundaries are.”

Mrs. Hudson grew ever more pensive, turning to reach for the teapot and pouring me a cup as she considered.  “As hard as it must be, especially for you, who have been with him through every stage of this awful illness and recovery, and who loves him so, we must get back to treating him as normally as possible. Less cosseting and more of what is good for him.”

I sighed.  I was not sanguine that I could ever see my way to treating Holmes in what had formerly passed for normal, so much had happened, so much had changed.  But she was right; the present course of action was not helping matters.

Our inestimable landlady gave me a brilliant smile, a final pat on the cheek, then picked up her tray and moved off in the direction of Holmes’s bedroom.  I followed in her wake, stopping some distance from the doorway.

I listened unashamedly as she and Holmes traded insults over the tray she placed before him, excoriating him to set aside the violin long enough to eat, whilst he cast dark aspersions on each dish as it was revealed.  It was a poignant taste of times past and happier days, and it gave me hope that perhaps, just perhaps, things could be something like what they had been.

 

*

In the days that followed, I endeavored to follow Mrs. Hudson’s advice and her continuing example.

As difficult as it was to march into Holmes’s substitute sancta sanctorum and pretend that all was perfectly regular and normal, I did so.  

Holmes had not shaved since leaving the hospital, where such niceties had been performed either by myself or the orderlies.  As a result, he was taking on a rather disreputable aspect, sporting more facial hair than I had ever seen sprout there in all the years of our association.  It afforded an opportunity for a first step towards normalizing relations between us.

Holmes had been lounging, eyes closed, absently patting Gladstone on the head when I entered. The Stradivarius was in its case on a bedside table, but Holmes seemed to be contemplating music even without it, his free hand sketching tempo in the air in the manner of an orchestral conductor.

I was loathe, in that moment, to disturb him, so little else but music had given him pleasure these last weeks and there had been no return of the migraines since Mrs. Hudson, the dog and Stradivarius had arrived.

“It is just as well,” I announced as I came into the room, bearing shaving supplies and accoutrements, “that you so seldom leave this room. You look fearsome enough with that bushy growth on your chin that you are apt to frighten carriage horses and stampede small children.”

One baleful brown eye opened in my direction and looked me up and down, as though faintly surprised to find me still in Switzerland, let alone in the room.  Had I avoided entering here in these last days, when I found myself wrestling with how best to proceed in following Mrs. Hudson’s counsel?  No, I distinctly remembered coming to collect Gladstone for his necessary business, and to accompany me on my twice daily constitutionals.  But I had ceased to sleep in the room with Holmes, spending my nights on a settee in the study instead, but to Mrs. Hudson’s consternation, and worry that I had been displaced unpleasantly by her arrival.

I hadn’t planned it that way.  In fact, I had ached to be stretched by my beloved’s side, our little family unit restored with Gladstone’s arrival; but had spent so much time in tortured consideration of mailing my letter to Mary and the consequences thereof, that I had only had the energy to stagger to the settee and collapse upon it.

So it was that the envelope as yet remained unposted, and my dearest Holmes looked at me as though I were some spectre from his distant past.

Holmes’s other eye raised and appraised me with a withering glance. “A careful consideration of your own countenance might not be amiss, before you disparage the visage of another, Watson.”

He was probably right about that. And there was enough of the spirit of my Holmes of old haunting that observation that I took heart.  I kept the smile off my face with a will, and sat at the edge of the bed, my tray with razor, shaving mug, scissors and mirror placed carefully between us.

“Mrs. Hudson is bringing warm water and towels in a few moments. Would you like me to do the honors, or are you feeling up to performing tonsorial exertions yourself?”  I offered.

Holmes frowned, appearing to consider.  When he spoke, it was in a manner stiff with indignation, although it was less clear if such was real or feigned: “I have been shaving myself since my whiskers exceeded the strength of the family cat to remove, Watson.  I believe I can manage on m own.”

He plucked the mirror from the tray, and brought it up.

It had occurred to neither of us, that Holmes had not truly seen himself in a mirror since he’d recovered from the fevers.  This bedroom of his lacked such, not even a small one in the water closet.  Mirrors were valuable things, and often were not to be found in rented accommodations, it was true, and we each carried our own in our shaving kits, so had not truly noticed the lack before now.

If I had joked about his effect on horses and small children, a comment rooted firmly in jest, I had not thought about how his altered aspect, still recovering from the encounter with Death itself, would appear to himself.

He was, as ever, beautiful in my eyes, no matter how hollow eyed and gaunt cheeked, and as yet somewhat pitiable due to the effect of the shorn hair.  The latter **was** growing back somewhat, but still far from its former state of disheveled splendor.

He had seen the magnificent ruin of his healthy self; it was too late to snatch the mirror back, although my fingers burned to do so.

He dissembled as skillfully as ever.  The brown eyes widened for the barest of moments, his expression went from shocked surprise to rueful acceptance in the space of a lightning flash. He pulled the tray closer, spreading a dry towel across his chest and snatching up scissors to tackle the longer chin hair and reduce its length so that it might succumb more readily to the razor.

“Really, Watson. I do not require a spotter for so basic an action. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to take dear Gladstone for a walk?  His nerves must need some settling after being trapped with this hideous face for so long.” He spoke with a forced lightness, yet in a tone that brooked no argument. When he laid aside the mirror to gesture my dismissal, I meekly stood and did his bidding, coaxing a loathe dog into action and quitting the room.

Sighing, I reached for Gladstone’s lead and my own hat, and left the pleasant chalet behind.

It seemed that no matter what I did, disaster was destined to follow in my wake.

***


	18. "done for the least word said..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good buddy Piplover 123 on LJ gets co-author credit on this chapter for duty above and beyond the call!  
> Thanks so much for sharing so freely of your ideas and your gift for wonderful dialogue!!

**Finality:**

** Chapter 18: "done for the least word said…"**

 

L.A. Adolf &amp; Piplover

 

_"There will be no man do for your sake, I think,  
What I would have done for the least word said.  
I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink.  
Broken it up for your daily bread."_

_Algernon Charles Swinburne, The Triumph of Time (1866)_

 

_Watson:_

Gladstone did not have his heart in our walk, and in fact, gave every indication that he did not like being so far parted from Holmes.  He was more stubborn than usual, spent half of our time out of doors sitting staring up at me balefully and whining, the other half resisting his lead.

It was not until I gave up and turned back towards the chalet that his demeanor perked up and his step quickened. By the time we drew near the front door, Gladstone was straining at his leash and barking, eager to return to the master he had missed far more than myself, it was obvious.

I removed his lead, and gave him his head as we entered the chalet. He made a beeline for Holmes's room.

I followed, determined that I should make sure that Holmes had not damaged himself in the act of making his appearance more presentable.

At first, the room seemed empty, save for Gladstone, who stood on the bed looking down at the floor on the far side and growling.  My heart leaped into my throat as an overactive imagination had me envisioning my dearest Holmes lying insensible on the floor. I dashed around the foot of the bed, only to find Holmes, on hands and knees, reaching underneath it for something.

He caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye, and reared up.  The large brown eyes were blazing, the freshly shaven face -- gauntness attenuated by that recent activity -- dark and forbidding as a thundercloud.

"What," Holmes spat, somewhat awkwardly gaining his feet and rounding on me, "has **_your_** wife been doing to **_MY_**dog?" he demanded, extending a hand in my direction.

On his palm lay the shriveled remnants of scraps from the steak that had made up the major portion of Holmes's dinner the night before.  Mrs. Hudson was of the firm opinion that the best way to restore the ill was by application of good red meat to the diet.

"_Our_ dog," I responded automatically, totally confused.  I could not for the life of me fathom what any action of Mary's had to do with discarded scraps of steak.

"Gladstone's appetite, which your wife once described as ravenous—eating you and she out of 'house and hearth' if I remember the exact phrasing correctly—is nonexistent.  He's been off his feed since he arrived! There is your proof.  Never in the past has he refused to finish his scraps!  And Gladstone _is_ **_MY_ **dog! You lost title to him when you removed yourself from Baker Street and abandoned him there!"

"Mary has taken excellent care of **_YOUR_** dog! And quite thanklessly I might add!  There was nothing wrong with his appetite when I left for the Continent and I have no reason to doubt her word that there was any change after that!" I responded, my own tone heating up dramatically. "And I left him behind at Baker Street to keep you company! I did not _abandon_ him!"

"You have done nothing but **_abandon_** him. But that is what you are best at isn't it? Abandonment?"  Holmes was warming to his subject now, invigorating what had been a state of extended enervation with a ruddy sort of rage-fueled energy. "I arrange for him to have a home with you and your wife upon my departure, and he is no sooner delivered into your hands than off you dash, coming after me, uninvited! Leaving poor Gladstone with a veritable stranger."

"Uninvited? You were tearing off—once again might I point out –ill equipped and unprepared to engage in a fight for your life!  I did what I always have done, came after you to save your sorry ass…"

"Then why did you abandon my 'sorry ass' to the mercies of the prison yard after Dredger attacked us during the Blackwood case?"  Holmes shot back.

I sputtered for a moment, a bit slow on the uptake faced with the shift in the vehement accusations.  "What the_ hell_ does that have to do with anything?! And for your information I was only in there because I was saving your _sorry ass_ from being killed by Dredger! You were laid out in the slipway dead to the world for most of the fight!   And then after I was released I went to Mycroft to have HIM save your _sorry ass_!!

Holmes had the good grace to look confused. "Mycroft?  What, pray, did Mycroft have to do with it? Mycroft did not do anything!"

"Then who the hell do you think dropped your name to get your bail set, hmm?  Sir Thomas didn't know you from Adam before your brother put a flea in his ear about your ability to help him with his 'problem'."

It was obvious that Holmes's ego had never considered that possibility before. He recovered heroically from the blow to his self image however. 

"Trifles, Watson, trifles!  If it hadn't been for my quick wit and vast store of off color jokes I would have been playing, as Lestrade so colourfully put it, 'Victoria and Albert' with the denizens of the place."

"**_Trifles_**?!" My voice raised a full octave in indignation.  "That _trifle_ was the reason you weren't left to stew in that filthy place longer, all the good it did you!   And for another thing, I put my neck on the block with Mary for that!"

"I'm so sorry that this was such an_ inconvenience_ for you.  God forbid you continue to live your life doing things you had done before you met her!  Heaven help you for getting your hands dirty, saving my _sorry ass_ and all."

There was something behind the rage in Holmes's features that gave me a sudden pause, a profundity of hurt that I could not begin to plumb the depths of.

"I'm sorry that our—**_my_**\-- work was no longer respectable enough for you! So much so that you had to turn your back on everything we'd ever done together!"  Holmes continued his rant.

"I never turned my back on you!" I shot back, recovering my equilibrium from that unexpected charge belatedly. 

"You LEFT me!!! How is that not turning your back on me?!"

"That justified _you _then trying to leave _me_, did it?  I wasn't the only one turning my back! You attempted to leave _permanently_. At the end of a hangman's rope!"

Holmes reeled back as though I had struck him a physical blow. "You knew about that?"  His eyes grew large, horrified.  Vulnerable.

"Knew about it?! I sat at your bedside and held both of your hands in mine and begged you to keep breathing! Praying that you'd wake up with no memory of what you'd done…that somewhere in that drugged sleep you'd locate your will to live again."

Holmes looked for all the world like a street mongrel who'd never known a kindness, kicked to the kerb by a booted foot.  I had to force my eyes away from him, or become completely unmanned at the sight of that utter devastation.

He said nothing, continuing to look at me with those stricken, hollow eyes.

"And then _you_ all but forced _me_ away!  All you would have had to do in the wake of those events was to ask me to stay, and I would have.  I would have forsaken Mary in an instant if I thought I could bring to you anything but pain and torment!"

Holmes made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt of pain and a moan of anguish.  "I did that to keep you safe!"

"I didn't want to be safe!  I wanted to be with you!" I cried, feeling oddly at peace with finally giving that truth voice.

"And yet here you are. Preparing once again to pack up and leave!  You've saved my life again.  Well done, old chap.  Your obligation is done.  Go back to your wife and your respectable life."  Holmes voice had lost its rage, it was resigned, empty.

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about? I just spent the better part of this last week trying to find the words to tell Mary that I can't come home to her. Because it isn't her I love with all my heart, soul and energy. It is **_YOU_**.  And after everything that has happened, I can no more leave you again than…than… I c-could sit by and watch you d-die back in the hospital."

Holmes was regarding me owlishly, the huge eyes wide and glistening.

"How can you want _me_? You have everything you have dreamed of, and I am the millstone around your neck.  You should have let me cut the rope that tethers me here."

I crossed the few steps that separated us, enraged. I grabbed Holmes roughly by the shoulders and shook him as I yelled into that gaunt face.

"Don't you **_dare_** say that!  Don't you see?  You're not a millstone!  You're not a burden, or an obligation!  You're everything to me!  Without you I may as well be nothing! Without you I **_am _**nothing."

All color drained from Holmes's face, to the point I was fearful of a swoon. Then it returned, a spreading flush rising up from his neck.

"Everything?" he repeated.

"_My_ everything. As I live and breathe."  I swore fervently.

There was a long moment of silence, whilst the import of what had just been said seemed to sink in.

"Watson...did you say you'd written Mary..."  Holmes began, weakly.

"Yes, Holmes."  I shook him again, more gently this time. "Where do you think I've been these last nights, when I wanted nothing more than to hold you in my arms while you slept?"

"Packing?"  Holmes's voice was very small, almost childlike.

"For the most brilliant man in the world, you are a complete and utter idiot." I buried my face in my hands, finally letting go of my beloved's thin shoulders.

He reached out and pulled my hands away from my face, and looked at me solemnly.  "You cannot break this to her in a letter."

"But I cannot let this agony go on, Holmes."  I said, "It has gone on far too long already.  There must be an end to it and a clean break.  I think it kinder to tell her now, as quickly as possible."

"You should go back to England and tell her. Face to face."  Holmes persisted earnestly.

"No. It needs to be done now. And I will not leave you.  And _you_ are in no condition to travel as yet. Trust me, my dearest. It is better this way."

Holmes heaved a gusty sigh, and sank down on the edge of his bed. "Tell me Watson, could we have made a bigger mess of things, if we had set out to do so?"

I sat down next to him. "Quite probably not."

"I am not sure whether or not to be inordinately relieved, or saddened by that fact."  Holmes admitted.  He turned half round, attention fixed on the side of the bed opposite where we sat.  "Watson. We've traumatized our dog."

I mimicked his action, and saw poor dear Gladstone, his head buried beneath one of the pillows at the end of the bed, trying to make the rest of his body as small as possible.  While we had often argued in front of the poor beast, we had never crossed swords with the intent to wound as we had today.  Our perspicacious pup had been caught in the withering crossfire.

I stood and walked around the bed, moving to lift the pillow from the dog's head.  Holmes lay down on his side of the bed and rolled in Gladstone's direction until he was nearly eye to eye with the animal.

We were deeply engaged in speaking gentle, coaxing words of comfort to our pet when Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway to the room.

"I've been tasked by Mr. Mycroft Holmes to see if there are any survivors?"

That worthy woman queried stepping into the room and taking in Holmes and my relative positions; sensing no impending violence, she continued. "If you boys are done eviscerating each other, I have tea prepared. Could you be convinced to call a truce while you have a cup?"

"I think, Nanny, that we can do better than a truce. We may have brokered a lasting peace."  Holmes offered, raising an eyebrow in my direction. I favored him with a brilliant smile.  "What say, Watson? Tea ? And maybe a drop of laudanum for the dog?"

*

Down the hall, Mycroft Holmes removed the hand with which he'd been restraining Constable Clark since the verbal donnybrook had broken out in the master bedroom, patting the man's arm as he felt him finally relax.

Ever the good hearted soul, Clark had early on wanted to intervene in what had promised to be a verbal bloodbath.

"They needed that, Clark.  Like a boil needs lancing or an infected tooth needs extracting.  The poison is out now.  They should be able to heal."

Mycroft poured both of them a cup of tea from the pot that Mrs. Hudson had set before them before braving the frontlines of the war raging on the other side of the chalet.

"Aye.  They should at that."  Clark took a deep and satisfied sip of the brew.

The tension that had marked the atmosphere in the house had dissipated almost magically, it was true. But there was always a bit of room for a drop or two more of liquid relaxation. Toward that end, Clark produced a flask, holding it up for Mycroft to see. 

"A bit of nerve tonic, sir? For us innocent bystanders narrowly missed by the shrapnel?"

Mycroft fought a losing battle to keep a sober and dignified aspect, then threw back his head and laughed.  "A man after my own heart, Clark! A man after my own heart."

**


	19. "obstinate, pliant, merry, morose"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a new chapter, somehow, chap 18 posted twice!

**Finality:**

**Chapter 19: “obstinate, pliant, merry, morose”**

 

L.A. Adolf

 

_“You are obstinate, pliant, merry, morose,  
all at once.  For me there is no living with you,  
or without you.”_

_Marcus Valerius Martialis, Epigrams XII, 47_

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

My poor dear Watson, nerves and sensibilities worn so slight by weeks of worry, fell into a deep slumber soon after we’d had our dinner that evening.  He all but collapsed in a heap of spent exhaustion on the bed next to our slumbering Gladstone, and could not be roused.

Not that I cared to even make the attempt.  Instead, I stretched out facing my dearest doctor, eyes from which scales had so recently fallen drinking in the magnificent  sight of him.

I was vexed at the lines of exhaustion in his proud countenance, detected a gray hair or two which had not been in evidence amongst those golden locks before.  I fretted that his frame—already spare, was leaner than it ever had been, even in those days after he returned from Afghanistan, so ill and frail.

I decided then, that I would, in return for all the care and concern he had lavished on me, pay him back tenfold. He would never want for anything, would never be touched again by suffering, for this man and this man alone I would conduct myself as never before, to spare him every torment.

I could not help myself—even though I might have disrupted his much needed rest, I could not keep my hands from reaching out to touch him.  I did so at first tentatively, then, when I could detect no alteration in his peace, with a bit more boldness. 

I started with his hands---big, beautiful, but yet delicate in their dimensions, exquisite in their ability to convey comfort in touch. I traced one finger lightly over the ridges of his knuckles, down the length of each finger, straightening them gently where they clutched spasmodically in the alternate reality of some dream.  I watched carefully as my ministrations seemed to transmit a deeper peace to my beloved, one more line in the dear forehead easing itself away.

I stroked upward the bones and sinews of wrist and forearm, calming and soothing.  Much as I fingered the strings of my violin, coaxing sweet music from them, I worked at the muscles and tendons of the strong and capable appendage to which I owed so much of my own life.

His good, dependable right arm.

I was rewarded with a deep sigh, and a further relaxation of the taut lines of his face and body.

My hands skimmed where ever I could reach, thigh, hip, flank and chest, coming to rest briefly where a solid and stalwart heart beat steadily. I closed my eyes to fully contemplate that rhythm, the very steadfastness of which created a connection between that center and mine own that would never now sever.

I drank of a peace and contentment in that instant, the like of which I had never known, a feeling that spoke so strongly of ‘home’ that tears sprang to my eyes.  I did not heed them, did not care, satisfied in that suspended moment in time, to allow my soul to be filled to its every corner by the wonder of it.

I opened my eyes, and almost had to close them again against the magnificence that was my beloved’s face.  Though my hands were loath to leave the heart that drove their purpose, they also ached to explore the delicacy of those fine features, and I gave them free rein.

The closed eyelids were like the finest silk, the long lashes so soft and feather-like that my breath caught in my lungs, not even daring to travel so far as my throat. I held it there, until my head seemed to swim.

“Mine.”  I uttered on the exhale, and my own heart clenched in a paroxysm of tenderness.  “Mine.” I repeated, transported to a height in that instant known only to angels heretofore.

I could not help myself then.  With all the stealth I possessed, I hitched myself carefully closer, ever so much nearer, until the breath that my darling released on expiration was taken up on the inspiration by my own lungs.  I wrapped myself about him possessively, yet adroitly, drawing his head beneath my chin, while my arms enfolded and my legs entwined with his own.

“Mine.”  I sighed, closing my own eyes, and allowing myself to drift in the rapture.

Mine, forever more.

  


**

 

In the watches of the night, I extricated myself cautiously from the embrace that had long since become mutual, hesitating to be sure that my movement in no way roused my slumbering dear.  He slept on, with the perfect peace that only the brave and true can ever enjoy, and I stood, moving through the darkness with surety.

I had trained myself many years ago, to move silently and confidently in even the lowest of lighting and I put that training to good use now.

I glided into the study which had been for so many days my dearest love’s sanctuary and self imposed prison, drawn unerringly to the envelope that as yet sat propped next to the blotter.

Even in that gloom I could discern Watson’s fine script on the envelope, and I fancied I could sense the complete devastation and utter anguish that had gone into the writing of it.

I could not allow it to be mailed, too vividly imagining the desolation of the recipient when she opened it. She would be expecting another picaresque report of her husband’s friend Holmes, would be in no way prepared for the perfect bliss of her world to end.

I had been party to the slaughter of one innocent –if Irene Adler could ever lay claim to such a descriptor – I could not allow another to suffer the same fate. 

Watson would be angry to find the missive gone, but he would be made to understand– no matter how delayed the action – that it was better to leave a pleasant fiction intact until such a time as we could both go and face Mary with the unalterable truth.

A part of me wanted to open the envelope and read the words that heralded my triumph in the war for the heart of John Watson, but the communication of a man to his wife, however short the duration of their matrimonial state, was sacred.  Instead, I walked over to the hearth of the study fireplace, and set about burning the letter.

I squatted down, watching the papers curl and the ink blacken, until my entire body ached at the position, and the wound in my side, which I had forgotten this long day, pulled painfully.  Yet I waited until all that was left was ash and the smoke that trailed up the flue and into the air of a cool Swiss night.

After the deed was done, I stood, contemplating the astonishing reversal in fortunes that the day just past had brought.  That I was not worthy of such a miracle I well knew.  That what we shared flew in the very face of all that was acceptable and proper, I realized.  For myself that was a small consideration, but I marveled at what John Hamish Watson was giving up for my sake, and was humbled before the magnitude of it. He must never have a moment’s regret of his choice.  Never.

I returned to the master bedroom, working my way silently back to the bed.

In my absence, Watson had reached out, as though searching unconsciously for the body that had been so warm against his and which had vanished so unaccountably.  His fingers scrabbled, his brow grew furrowed, and I knew that wakefulness and questioning would follow soon after.  I slipped back into the bed, spooning against my dearest, drawing the coverlet up over both of us.

“I am here, my love.” I whispered soothingly, “I am here.”

As if by some enchantment, he settled then, humming softly in his slumber, a small happy sound that warmed me to the center of my soul.

I followed him down into sleep confident, that with my love so near, I could face the dawning of a new day with a hope and security I had never before known.

  
**

_Watson:_

I took a deep breath and counted to ten.

I had come into the study, intent on retrieving my letter to Mary and posting it later this fine morning when I embarked on my habitual walk. 

Only to find it gone.

I  had returned to where I had left Holmes, sleeping deeply and sweetly, knowing full well that at some point in the night before, he had stolen into the study and made off with the envelope and its contents.

With luck, he would merely have hidden the epistle, I could compel him to give up its location and it could be on its way.

Of course, this was Holmes. Who never did anything by halves.

“I no longer have it, Watson. I burned it.”  He admitted freely—and maddeningly, once I had urged him awake and asked after the letter.

“Burned it? Why on earth would you do something so—“

“Considerate?”  He rushed to insert a word with meaning far from my intent. In a lifetime of unilateral decisions of varying consequences, benevolence had rarely been a priority.

“Underhanded.”  I supplied sourly.  “I told you, Holmes, this is a matter that cannot await the convenience of your convalescence.  The thing must be done, and I had done it, after days of dithering and cowardice. And now you force me to begin all over again.”

“No!”  Holmes was suddenly in my face, countenance livid with anger, “Do not EVER refer to yourself in such terms again!  I will not stand for it! You are the bravest and most steadfast of men.  And you will not ‘begin all over again’! **We** will sit down together and compose a communication to Mary, which will plainly and kindly convey that you –in fact, we –must talk to her once we are back in London.  That there is something very important that must be talked about, calmly and rationally.  And face to face.  That will prepare her, not blindside her, as your original confession would have done.”

Sherlock Holmes, magnanimous in victory?  Having a heartfelt and well reasoned concern for someone outside himself?

I loved the man beyond prudence, but I knew his frailties and failings full well. Any anger I continued to feel at the thwarting of my efforts to clear the way before us, fell away, victim to complete and utter astonishment.

I knew in that moment the transformative effect of love, and gloried in it.  But I could not allow him to think he had triumphed so easily.

“It is better for a healing wound to have the bandage covering it yanked off decisively, not worried at, pulled this way and that.  In the end that can cause only more damage, pull the defect open, cause infection --

“Oh Watson, do shut up. We are talking a _woman_ here, not a scabbed over cut, and as you--expert on the fairer sex that you are--well know, a certain amount of delicacy is required in these matters! I –“

“**You**! Willing to sit down to write a letter to a _woman_? To accompany me to a confrontation which will no doubt end in the shedding of _tears_, a display of _hysterics_?  What have you done with the genuine Sherlock Holmes?  You must be some changeling placed into his bed during the night, for you can surely not be –“ 

“WATSON!”  He exclaimed, exasperated.

I was sure that by now, the gig would be up, and Holmes would be aware of the sparkle in my eye, but he seemed genuinely agitated that I thought so little of him.

I took pity.  Leaning forward, I drew close and planted a kiss on the end of his nose.  The reaction was well worth the calculated risk, eyes  as big as the proverbial china saucers that sat beneath our morning tea cups, he was stunned to instant silence.

“Very well.  Finish your breakfast. Then together we will sit down and compose this letter, and you can walk with me to the post to make sure it starts on its way without alteration or interference.”   I stated agreeably.

It felt good—no better than good—that after so many weeks—no months-- of miscommunication and crossed purposes, that we were together, in perfect accord and acting in the best interests of the greater number.

The world, teetering on the brink of disaster for so long, had finally righted itself.

And all was right and good.

**


	20. "things which are not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Minor Character Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Piplover for her wonderful dialogue assist on this chapter

**Finality:**

** Chapter 20: “things which are not…”**

L.A. Adolf

 

_From dull privations, and lean emptiness  
he ruined me, and I am re-begot  
Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not._

_John Donne, A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day being...  
stanza 2_

 

_Watson:_

As it turned out we did not sit down to write the letter after breakfast, in fact, it took a further two days to accomplish the task.

Our epiphanic quarrel, and the fact that Holmes  kept to such a busy night afterward instead of resting, had taken a toll on my poor darling’s strength, and he was nodding off in his eggs before Mrs. Hudson had so much as placed his post-prandial cup of cocoa before him.

I called for Clarky and between us we put a sleepy Holmes to bed again.

Our newfound harmony meant that I was able to lavish without stint all the attention and affection on Holmes that I had ached to do for weeks and which his disheartened mental and emotional state had rendered impossible for him to accept or absorb. 

I might rightly have been accused of spoiling the man, a fact that Mrs. Hudson warned me about at the outset, but I could not make myself care at all about the consequence.

 I catered to every wish and fancy; tempted him with whatever morsel of food might spark his appetite; I read to him from the London papers that Mycroft had sent to the chalet as part of his own long distance work.  I sat enraptured as he serenaded me with the beloved Stradivarius.  I even allowed him to smoke the pipe that had been heretofore forbidden him during his recuperation.  We squabbled good-naturedly over trivialities, as was our long standing habit and if truth be told, our joy.

Late in the second day he rose much restored and we sat down together, composing a letter almost heartrending in its delicacy, Holmes often rephrasing a sentence or paragraph that he felt might grate too harshly on Mary’s sensibilities.

The result was a correspondence of such art that my wife, on reading it, must surely divine its ultimate sequelae, but which would give no anguish and no alarm.

On the third day, we walked to the post office, arm in arm. Handing over the missive to the postmaster, we turned, emerging again into the sunlight. 

A day and a half of rest had done much to restore my dearest Holmes.  Once the weight of our misunderstandings had been removed, the speed with which his health seemed to rebound was astonishing.  A mere two days of nourishing food and drink had done much to put some solidity back into a frame emaciated by weeks of injury and ill health.

The life that had been missing from those dark eyes for so long also returned, and that fact, more than any other brought back to my soul a peace and contentment that had long been absent.

Holmes stumbled against me, when we were but halfway to the chalet, and I was powerfully reminded that his state of health was still precarious and its course unfolding.  I guided him quickly to a bench set a few yards back from the roadway, and settled him upon it.

“I should have made this trip alone.  You are not yet fit for this much physical activity all at once.” I remonstrated myself; drawing a shawl I had thrown around his shoulders closer about him.

“Nonsense, Watson.  I’ve been too long abed.  I am going to insist that you bring me along on your twice daily constitutionals, henceforth, or else I shall never regain my full strength. And it is imperative that I am able to travel as soon as possible.”  The reply was softly chiding.  He covered my hands with his own, patting them reassuringly.

“You will not push yourself!  All that will do is reverse any good that has been done thus far.  I will not have that.” I warned. I shook a finger at him as he dropped his hands to his lap. 

“Yes, my dear Mother Hen.” Holmes replied, not without cheek, “I am as ever your good and obedient servant.”

I sank my face into the palms of my hands.  “That will be the day.” I muttered darkly.  Still, it was delightful and vastly comforting to see more of Holmes’s spirit return. I smiled into my palms, then lifted them away from my face.

I fancied I heard Holmes suppress a snort, but decided to ignore it. For several minutes we sat in companionable silence, the good fresh air and warm sunshine a tonic for my dear who had been confined indoors for too long.

"How do you think Mary will react, when we finally break our news to her?" Holmes asked quietly.

I debated between giving an honest answer and making an attempt to deflect the query.  There was no point in buying trouble or fostering anxiety until the day came that the consequences had to be faced.  And I could not take the chance that anything I said now would prey on Holmes’s thoughts in the interim, he was as yet in that fragile mental state between illness and health where a turn of mind could affect the progress of his complete recovery.

Deflection it was.

"I'm as like to be shot on sight as there is apt to be hysterics or recriminations, you needn’t worry yourself on that score.”  I stated baldly.

Holmes eyed me for a minute, perceiving adroitly that this was a subject I was not yet willing to broach.  “Your lady wife?  Shoot a gun?”

“Mary's father fancies himself a 'great white hunter'.  She was raised with a veritable arsenal at her fingertips. Bagged her first tiger in India before she was thirteen.”

"I perceived as much when I kissed her hand at the Royale that first meeting."  Holmes stated, knowingly.

I raised an eyebrow.  “You did?”

"Calluses on the fingers, you see, that were not explained by the usual exertions of a governess.  Not only had she been a markswoman, she apparently keeps herself _au courant_ with her ability to wield a firearm,” came the confident reply.

"I wish you'd told me, old chap! I didn't find out until after the wedding!”  I exclaimed.  It was true, one of our wedding gifts from my father-in-law had been a brace of pistols.

"What?!  And **_interfere_** with your engagement?  Perish the thought!  What you _must_ think of me!"  My dearest replied, with just enough bitterness and bite that I could tell that he was not being completely facetious.

I sighed deeply."Forgive me, Holmes. I didn't mean to upset you."  I was genuinely contrite. We enjoyed a renewed unity, but the past was still too much with us to make too light of what had not long ago been a near-tragic matter.

"No, Watson, I must beg _you _forgive _me_.” Holmes sighed, looking away from me, gaze fixed firmly in the opposite direction.  “I am still... adjusting."

I understood only too well.  I reached out and patted his thigh, reassuringly.

"Perhaps we should speak of other things, yes?” I encouraged, enticing the pained brown eyes back in my direction.  Something rolling off the back of a passing wagon caught my attention.   “Oh, look, a bedpan."

“Watson, that is not even remotely…” Holmes began, his facial expression at first sour, then, in a flash, transformed into utter shock and surprise. “Oh, look, it is a bedpan!”

We both stared at the object that lay in the middle of the road in front of us, speechless.

It was Holmes who found his voice first.  “Watson, tell me, is the Swiss national symbol the bedpan, or is there some other reason they seem to be absurdly abundant?”

“We are a mere three streets away from the hospital, no doubt they needed to resupply after your exertions to render the objects extinct.”  I observed.

“Perhaps I should retrieve it. Clarky must still have his sidearm with him. If I can prevail upon him to lend that weapon to me, I could use the cursed object for target practice. Then, if Mary attempted to draw a bead on you, I could defend your honor in a duel.”  Holmes was muttering, darkly. 

I reached out a hand and touched his brow, gauging for fever. There was none, but with the re-appearance of an old enemy, there was no point in taking any chances. 

“Enough of that old chap.  I think it is time we get you back to the chalet.  Leave that thing be.”

"I **_am_** feeling more faint, Watson. Done to death by bedpans."  Holmes sighed dejectedly.

I stood, and offered Holmes my hand, which he accepted, allowing me to draw him up onto his feet.  I then offered my arm once again, and he obligingly leaned into it.

We made a slow but steady way back to our temporary domicile.

We were greeted at the door by Mycroft, who had seen us depart in high spirits and bubbling energy.  It must have given him a bit of a shock to see us returning, his brother leaning so heavily against me, and so subdued.  His expression changed abruptly from pleasant expectation to profound worry.

Holmes spared his brother the barest of glances, intent on shouldering past as quickly as possible and returning to his room.

"I have been faced with an unspeaking evil, brother.  I need to rest." Holmes murmured and left us at the door.

Mycroft looked at me intently, as though he was in danger of losing his faith in my ability to shield and protect his brother during even so innocent an excursion as a stroll to the post office.

"A stray bedpan." I murmured, to Mycroft's astonished reaction.

It was not until after I had led a small expedition back to the site and both Mycroft and Clark had seen the evidence with their own eyes and disposed of the item accordingly, that I was believed and allowed to rejoin my beloved.

True to his comment to Mycroft, Holmes was fast asleep.  Feeling suddenly done in myself, I lay down beside him, took him into my arms, and joined him in the embrace of Morpheus.

**

We had a week of the most perfect bliss imaginable.  Holmes continued to improve daily both in health and spirits, and a house that had for so long been dark and depressing enjoyed a convivial renaissance.

Holmes was giving Clark lessons in violin, the good man proving to be an apt pupil, his fiddling skills putting him at some advantage in mastering the more subtle sounds of which the instrument was capable.

Gladstone’s appetite returned to its usual ravenous proportions, in direct correlation to the improvement in his master Holmes’s own capacity for taking in and enjoying Mrs. Hudson’s fine English cooking.

After so much agony and sadness, we finally had hope and happiness.

I should have expected that we would have to pay for it.

**

_Mrs. Hudson:_

The men were just sitting down to dinner, the first where all the household was to be seated at the same table –Mr. Sherlock Holmes finally being well enough to take his meals outside his room – when there was a knock on the door.

Visitors at dinnertime rarely boded well.  Forcing down my irritation that my men folk would be at all disturbed at their meal, I excused myself to answer the door.

It was a messenger from the telegraph office.  He had with him a telegram that was marked urgent, for the attention of Doctor Watson.  Although I offered him his payment and to deliver the dispatch myself, he would not allow me to do so, insisting instead that the sender had communicated via separate wire, that the message he held be delivered into the good doctor’s hands, and his alone.

Much chagrined, I escorted the officious young man into the dining room.

“Telegram for Doctor Watson, marked urgent.” The messenger announced before he had even gained full entry into the room. 

Dr. Watson stood, breaking off whatever he had been saying mid sentence, and moving over to the entryway, extending his hand for the paper.

Once the scrap was transferred, I took the messenger’s arm, to escort him back to the door.  He resisted, refusing to budge.

“I am to wait for a reply, per the sender’s instruction,” the young man responded.

Dr. Watson looked from the young fellow to the folded piece of paper in his hand.

Obligingly, he unfolded it, his kind blue eyes flicking over the contents.

Dr. Watson seemed to go somewhat pale, immediately fumbling for the notebook and pencil he habitually carried in his waistcoat pocket.  He yanked a page out of the notebook, and scribbled something on it, pressing it into the young messenger’s hands and waving at him in dismissal. Only then did the young man accept the money I gave him and left.

I believe in retrospect, that Mr. Sherlock Holmes perceived the truth of his reaction before any of the rest of us.  He was suddenly up from the table and at Dr. Watson’s elbow, even as the poor man reeled backward, all blood drained from his face.

“_WATSON!” _ he cried, wrapping his arms around Watson and steadying him in spite of his own physical infirmities. “For _God’s_ sake! _What is it?!_ Mycroft! Clark! _A doctor_!  We need a doctor, at once!”

Mr. Sherlock Holmes eased his beloved doctor into a nearby chair, set about loosening his collar. I whirled around, snatched the brandy decanter from the sideboard.  I crossed over to the pair of them, tipping some of the brandy into a glass.

Dr. Watson reacted in deeper distress at the call for a physician, he choked out a denial, “No, no doctor, ‘m all right.”

“You are anything but all right!”  Mr. Holmes hissed, grabbing the glass from my fingers and pressing it to Dr. Watson’s lips.

Somehow, in the upset, the scrap of paper which had caused all the distress had found its way into Constable Clark’s hands.  I barely noted that Mr. Clark glanced over the paper, his own face expressing shock, then handed it quickly to Mr. Mycroft Holmes.  The elder Mr. Holmes looked by turns, astonished, shocked and saddened, then a sort of resignation crossed his features.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was engaged in tending to his doctor, watching as the poor man grimaced against the strong flavor of the spirits,  reaching out to grasp  the bloodless hand that groped in the air not unlike a drowning man reaching for the surface of the water that is filling his lungs. 

The good doctor seemed, at last, to be able to catch his breath.  His great blue eyes were huge in a pale face, and tears tumbled from them unheeded.  “She’s dead, Holmes.  She’s dead.  Mary has died.”

I feared in that moment for the health of both my lodgers—Mr. Sherlock Holmes went very pale and I fear he might have swooned, had he not had so much concern for his dearest friend.  Instead he wrapped his arms around poor Doctor Watson, drawing the stricken man’s head against his chest. He bent his own head down, laying a cheek against the top of the other’s, protective, the very image of heartbreaking empathy.

I looked in utter shock and astonishment to Mycroft Holmes, who nodded and held out the telegram to me.

It was from Inspector Lestrade, whom I had welcomed into Baker Street so many times over the years. The hard won peace and happiness of this home away from home was shattered by the words he had commanded to be sent.

I read those dreadful words, their black against the white of the paper somehow giving reality to the inconceivable. I crumpled the sheet up. My poor Sherlock Holmes did not need to see this, he’d had the essence from his own beloved’s lips.

**Mrs. Mary Watson found deceased in home. STOP. No sign of break in or violence. STOP. Request permission for post mortem to determine cause of death. STOP. Deepest Condolences, Lestrade. STOP. RSVP. STOP.**

  


**

 


	21. "memento mori, memento vivire"

**Finality:**

**Chapter 21:  Memento Mori, memento vivire**

 

L.A. Adolf

 

_From the Latin:_   
_Memento mori: remember that you must die  
Memento vivire: remember that you must live_

 

 

_Watson:_

Sherlock Holmes dropped to his knees before me, clasping both of my hands in his own.

“Oh my dear! Your hands! They are so cold! Watson, please Watson,” he chafed them tenderly; “Speak to me? Mycroft!  Clark!  I don’t care what he has said, a doctor!! Immediately!”

I could not bear to see him, so recently risen from his own sick bed, carry on so about my welfare, so I bestirred myself with a considerable will from my shock induced stupor.  “No, Holmes! Truly—there is no need.”

“Watson…?”

To prove my point, I stood, and urged him to his feet as well, wordlessly enfolding him in an embrace.  My ear next to his, I whispered, “It was a blow, my love, but I am all right now.  You must have a care for yourself; I can feel your heart racing in your breast.  Please, calm yourself.  If not for your own sake, for mine.”

He pulled away somewhat, looking deeply into my eyes, his own perfect mirrors of my misery and pain.

How I wished that every time I had called him unfeeling and inhuman could be snatched back in that moment!  What I saw before me was the great heart of a man who felt too deeply the pain of others, shared their torment too acutely, who wrapped himself in layers of indifference in order to be able to function at all. Whatever torment I felt, I must try to shield from him, especially in his still fragile state.

“How can you give a thought to me at such a time?”  He was very nearly slack-jawed at the very concept. My lips were stiff but I somehow I had no trouble forming them into an indulgent smile.

“Because, as I told you, _you_ are my everything, and I cannot risk losing you as well. Now, please. Breathe deeply and calm yourself.”

He did as he was bade, and as he relaxed somewhat, so did I, the two of us breathing in concert.  After a few minutes thus I pressed him into his chair at the dining table, moving my own as close as possible.

I looked around only then, to find us quite alone in the room, dinner forgotten by our companions, the covers not even off the serving dishes.

“Mrs. Hudson?” I raised my voice, and called out, trusting that the good woman was not far away at such a time.

“Y-yes, doctor?” she stuck her head into the room, uncertainly.

“Pray ask the others to return and resume the meal. Mr. Holmes must eat to keep up his strength, and there is no reason for your good cooking to go to waste.”

“But Doctor…” she began doubtfully.

“There is nothing more to be done for the dead. Let us attend to the living as best we can, shall we?”  I said evenly, keeping a hand on Holmes’s arm, feeling him tense as though to join her protest; I squeezed gently but warningly.

Her utter devastation flashed across her features in the next moment, tears springing to her eyes.  “Oh!  You brave, brave man!” She cried and disappeared.  I heard her calling to the others, listened to their astonished reactions, perceived them coming back.

I looked back to Holmes, and was nearly undone at the emotion shining in his dark eyes and pale face.  If I had ever doubted the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that sometimes cold mask, I could doubt no more.

 

**

 

_Mycroft:_

It was a miserable meal, not for the quality of the food or for the company but because of the news that had arrived at the outset of it.

Watson was right, my brother’s health was such that he could not miss a single meal without a direct corollary effect on his wellbeing, and for that reason alone, we all, Clark, Mrs. Hudson and I gave it our best effort.

I would never be able to doubt again either the strength nor bravery of John Watson, nor the depth of his love for my brother. Though he must have wished himself alone to deal with his grief in private, he made every attempt at normalcy for Sherlock’s sake and ours.

While idle talk was non-existent, the proprieties were still observed.  Watson served as head of the table, carving meat and dishing up portions, attending to the passing of plates and the offering of each dish.  I suppose that in such a horrendous circumstance, normal routine was welcome and soothing; proof that no matter what tragedy may come, life does go on and must be given precedence.

All during the ordeal, he kept a hawk’s eye on my brother, whose appetite was never robust and needed the least of reasons to throw it off entirely. That Sherlock would have preferred to do anything but eat was painfully obvious, but that he continued to at least sample every morsel set before him by his dearest doctor was touching proof that he would have done anything in the moment to give Watson peace and ease.

The good doctor ate little himself, a fact not lost on my observant brother for even a fraction of a second. 

“Come, Holmes, another mouthful, you must eat to continue to recover.”  Watson chided, slipping a bit more of the excellent roast beef onto his beloved’s plate.

“I will.  But only if you do the same,” my brother said quietly, the brown eyes steady on his companion.  Watson attempted a stern look in return, but was met with a gaze of such truculence he realized the wisdom in picking his battles.  With an eye on each other, both men brought sustenance to their mouths and ingested.

Clark and Mrs. Hudson did as best they could to maintain an air of customariness, but there was not a soul around the table, not even Gladstone, who sat between his two masters, looking up worriedly at both, who could relieve the poignant strain of the meal.

There came a point where putting on a good face was so obviously exhausting to both Watson and my brother—and enough comestibles had been consumed to keep bodies and souls together for the time being –that I called a halt to the proceedings and urged the pair to retire for the evening.

My brother, uncharacteristically, jumped at the suggestion.  Watson, still a bit dazed seemed intent on observing the social routine, as though dessert and coffee were something he truly desired, even if not for himself. 

Sherlock, whose obstinacy is legendary on several continents, dismissed the idea, and rose up to his feet.  “I am feeling woozy from all this food, Watson.  Stay if you will, but I am going to avail myself of my brother’s advice and have a lie-down.”

The well timed syncopic lurch that followed certainly was less fact than artifice, but it did the job.  Watson was on his feet in a flash and guiding my brother out of the dining room in a trice.

The rest of us watched them go, hoping they would take solace in each other and their newly re-footed bond, and that this tragedy would not compound itself by pulling them apart.  

“There is much to be done, Clark.  If you could be so good as to go to the telegraph office and train station for me?  I have messages that need to be sent to London and arrangements to set in motion on Dr. Watson’s behalf.”

Clark’s face lit up with a grim sort of excitement, as though relieved to have something concrete and helpful to do.  He was off in mere minutes, eager to take positive action.

“Your brother is not well enough to travel, Mr. Mycroft.  But Doctor Watson will have to return to London immediately will he not?  How will Mr. Sherlock fare in his absence?”  Mrs. Hudson asked, once we were alone.

I closed my eyes for a moment against the thought of my brother being told he would not be able to accompany his beloved Watson on his trip of bereavement, imagining all too easily the outraged reaction.   Shaking my head, I sighed and opened them again.

“I wish I knew, Mrs. Hudson, I wish I knew.”

***

_Sherlock Holmes:_

While not as unsteady on my feet as I led Watson to believe, I was as yet reeling emotionally from both the news and the effect it must needs be having on my dearest one, that when we gained the bedroom, I did stagger over to the bed in fair approximation of an impending collapse.

Watson was-- as ever-- presenting a brave and manful face to the world, but I could sense the profound grief and agony that radiated from him in waves.

Questions tripped over questions in my mind---I had not been able to examine the telegram after it arrived, having been too focused on my poor Watson to note where the document went after leaving his poor, cold hands. I knew only that Mary was dead.  The detective, a bit out of practice from weeks of infirmity, was clamoring for more information, for clues, leads and interrogations—but Watson was in no condition to be forced to go over what little information he might possess.

Anything I would learn would have to be volunteered by him, and I knew that he would, in concern for my own self, be loath to do so.

He aided me physically to the bed and bade me lie down upon it, albeit  without speaking a word.  I did so, looking up at him where he stood, lost and somewhat bewildered.

Impetuously, I grabbed his hand and pulled him down, until he sat on the edge of the mattress.

“My dear boy…”  I said very softly, “I will get to the bottom of whatever has befallen Mary—“

My heartfelt vow was cut off vehemently.

“NO!  Holmes!”  Watson looked at me in absolute refutation of my stated intent. “Lestrade had few details, but he was able to assure me that there is no indication of foul play. You must not waste a moment of thought or energy to assuming anything other than natural causes.  A post mortem is being conducted to prove it.  I’ve recommended Anstruther conduct it. I can trust his competency and thoroughness.”

Even in our modern age, with all its scientific and medical advances, sudden death amongst the young and seemingly healthy was not unheard of, it was true.

In the inquiries I had conducted into her and her family history following the announcement of Watson’s formal engagement to her, I had unearthed no hint of scandal or familial grudge that should be wreaking revenge now.  Watson’s involvement in my consulting detective work had on occasion presented immediate physical danger, but I had taken every care that any lingering animosity would fall directly on me, not the good Doctor.

I must, for now, accept my Watson’s commandment that I not pursue inquiries.  The results of the post mortem –which could not be conducted now before tomorrow, and the results thereof, probably not reach us until the day after, would present the next course of action.

Watson was looking at me, penetratingly, as though following my thoughts. I had no doubt he could, if I were not careful to dissemble.

“You must promise me, Holmes. You must give all your attention to your health and recovery.  I must have your word on it.”  My dearest one’s tone was stern and inarguable.

I hitched myself up into a seated position, my back against the headboard, and gave him the most earnest look of which I was capable. “I promise, Watson, if you will promise something in return?”

“Which is?” he rejoined, eyes sharply fixing with mine.

“That for the next few hours at least, you will let me take care of you, just as you have taken care of me for all these weeks?”

The steel in the blue gaze melted away, replaced by such tenderness it stole my breath away.  He seemed unable to speak, but sighed and nodded.

I grasped him by his shoulder and maneuvered him onto the bed beside me, making of myself a living pillow and support to a body that was suddenly washed over by weariness and grief and collapsed, boneless against me.  I drew his head against my stomach, even as he threw an arm across my hips. 

I stroked his head with one hand, as the other laid across his strong, broad shoulders. 

And when his tears began to fall, I wept with him.

**


	22. "a drowsy numbness pains..."

**Finality:**

**Chapter 22: “a drowsy numbness pains”**

L.A. Adolf

 

_My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains  
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk  
or emptied some dull opiate to the drains  
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk._

_John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale stanza 1_

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I rose early, intent on making an attempt to find the telegram that had brought my dearest Watson’s domestic world to an end.

An assiduous search did not locate more than a scrap of a corner of the standard form near the stove in the kitchen.  From that small bit of evidence I deduced that Mrs. Hudson had last been in possession of the communication and had burned it.

That I was probably the only occupant of this house save the illiterate Gladstone that had not seen the dispatch seemed significant. Perhaps there was more to the actual message than Watson had been inclined to tell me? Or was it merely the caution of my fellow occupants of this quiet chalet given my prolonged recuperation? 

Surely they must know by now that keeping details from me was counterproductive?  That it only increased my inquisitiveness?

At the moment, I was powerless to find out more, my usual modus operandi would have been to visit the telegraph office and demand –or bribe from the office clerk -- a copy of the telegram. However, given the current situation, such could not be accomplished without exciting more attention from the household than would be prudent or productive.

We’d be on our way back to London very soon, and the vast resources of that city would be open to me once we returned.  I must be content to bide my time.

Although counted by most to be a disaster in the making in the kitchen, I was determined to continue my care of my beloved Watson for as long as he would allow it.  Toward that end, I put coffee on the stove and prepared to break a few eggs.

***

_Watson:_

I awakened to the sensation of a single finger trailing down the side of my face, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee strong in the room.

I smiled instinctively at the familiar morning ritual, keeping my eyes closed a moment longer, savoring it. Mary had often brought a cup of coffee into our bedroom in the morning, knowing I’d developed a taste for the bracing brew in all the years of living with Holmes. She’d have her own tea and ---

Harsh reality crashed into the pleasant reminiscence.  In the span of seconds I remembered where I was and that Mary was …dead.

I must have grimaced in something near pain, for there was a small cry of alarm, and the single finger became the touch of a hand, smoothing my forehead and then cupping my cheek.

“Watson! Oh, my dearest boy!”  The deep voice of my heart’s desire was quietly strident in alarm.  I must not allow the natural pang at a poignant memory communicate itself as anything more than it was. My eyes flew open.

Sherlock Holmes was crouched next to me on the floor beside the bed, the penetrating brown eyes fixing me with an intently assessing stare.  His hand lingered on my face.  Behind him, on the bedside table, sat a tray; a carafe of coffee and a covered plate plainly visible.

I struggled up on one elbow carefully, “Holmes! What are you doing up?” He was fully dressed, no longer in the nightshirt I’d last seen him in, not even wearing his dressing gown. 

“I bring you breakfast, my dear,” he replied as though it was something he did everyday of our lives, instead of this being the rather rare event it was. “Coffee, eggs and a rasher of bacon. And toast.  I’ve been quite busy in the kitchen this last hour –”

It took a moment for my sleep deadened brain to wrap itself around that statement.  Taken at face value, Holmes words asserted that Mrs. Hudson had not prepared the tray, which seemed improbable…and yet, there was the evidence, a splash of coffee on Holmes’s sleeve, a slight smudge of what might be bacon grease on his shirt front, a tiny drop of egg yolk…

“_You’ve_made _me_ breakfast?” I asked.  My query must have contained more astonishment than I was aware of, given Holmes’s vaguely affronted reaction.

“Really, Watson, you have never fully appreciated my domestic inclinations nor have you yet recognized my merits as a housekeeper.”  He sniffed, in reply, gesturing me to sit up as he rose and turned toward the bedside table.

I arranged myself against the headboard, submitting to the tucking of a napkin into the neck of my nightshirt before the tray itself settled across my thighs.

I sampled the food before me, and found it quite excellent –marvelling once again that there was probably nothing Holmes could not do when he applied his magnificent mind to a problem. The food was also plentiful, surely more than enough than had been intended for me alone.

“Holmes, where is your plate? Join me then.”

“One’s own cooking seldom appeals, Watson.  Familiarity breeding a sort of contempt.  I have toast, here.”  He reached back for a small plate which contained a slice of toasted bread, and a cup.  Balancing the former on his knee as he sat beside me on the bed, he placed the latter on the tray and reached again for the coffee carafe.

“Holmes, I must insist you take more than mere toast! Your strength…”  I protested, only to be cut off by a gesture.

“Watson, it is my turn to care for you, please do not upset your digestion worrying after me.”  He poured out a cup of the dark brew and handed it to me. Only then did he pick  up his triangle of toast, nibbling on it, and eyeing me owlishly.

I subsided, vowing to turn the tables on him.  Taking in a hearty bite of bacon and eggs, I followed with a mouthful of coffee, and quite nearly choked.

I was quite accustomed to quaffing hot beverages, that was not the problem.  What _was_ the issue was the burning sensation of another sort as my taste buds registered an addition to the brew that was neither sugar nor cream.

“HOLMES!”  I ejaculated, horror-struck.

“Yes, dear boy?”  Holmes responded, all innocence.

“Whiskey! You’ve put whiskey in this coffee! Where –”

“Clarky keeps a flask. I have observed where he keeps the bottle he refills it from. A certain out of the way shelf in the kitchen pantry.” He explained calmly.  “Bottoms up, mother hen, it will do you good.  A bit of liquid relaxation never comes amiss in times of great emotional trial.”  Holmes replied solemnly and with a completely straight face.

I sank my face into my one hand, the other lowering my cup to my tray.

“Holmes, I do not require spirits, I’m really –” I began, sensing rather than seeing the arm that shot out over the tray and snatched my cup from my fingers.  By the time I removed my face from my palm, he was draining the last drops from the cup.

_“Holmes!!”  _I gasped, aghast, “you did not just drink down that cup of _adulterated_ coffee!”

“No, I did not.” He replied, somewhat nonsensically, as I had the evidence of my eyes.

“You did!! You must eat now immediately, spirits on your empty stomach will have an immediately  adverse effect on your health!”

Holmes literally seemed to turn green before my eyes. “I cannot abide the thought of food this morning, Watson.  I cannot.  And I’m quite capable of handling this small amount of liquor. I’ve been abusing myself for years have I not?” 

He rose from the bed beside me, as though sensing I was close to being moved to violence. He danced gracefully around the foot of the bed, putting on a passable show of being as good as his word.  Grimly setting my tray aside, I waited for the inevitable.

In my dearest’s weakened state, _any_ tolerance built up to _any _substance in the past was rendered moot by an altered body chemistry that was still fighting its way back to normalcy.  

 “Oh,” came a bemused exclamation a few minutes later, as Holmes pushed himself away from the wall to which he’d retreated to remain out of my reach. He moved toward the bed unsteadily.  I yanked back the covers, exposing the sheets just as he reached his goal and tumbled, sidelong, onto them.

I watched in unsurprised fascination as he rolled onto his back and spent the next few minutes staring in an unfocused manner at the ceiling. 

“Watson!” came a pathetically wavering voice. “I appear to be quite pixilated!”  He seemed completely mystified by the fact.

_Let that be a lesson to you! _ I thought the words, but did not have the heart to say them aloud.  It was never an easy thing to find yourself betrayed by your body.  When you prided yourself on your control of all around you--including yourself -- as  much  as Holmes did, such  perfidy was devastating.

Instead, I flicked the bed clothes back over his sprawled body, shook my head fondly and settled back, resuming my meal.

Snores emitting from that quadrant a few minutes later proved a siren song.  With my belly full, I set aside the empty tray, and followed my dear down into the healing arms of sleep.

It was only later that I realized, whether by accident or design, Holmes’s antics had driven the thought of Mary’s death from my mind for that precious span of time.

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

“I will not leave until after I have Anstruther’s  preliminary opinion.  I would think sometime tomorrow would be the earliest that could be expected.  I plan to go to the telegraph office later this afternoon.  I need to inform my in-laws that funeral and burial should be delayed until my return, amongst other considerations.” 

“I’ve arranged for an express rail car for you, which should greatly reduce your travelling time to the channel, and my agents in Belgium will see you aboard the fastest ship at that point. All at your convenience.  I presume day after tomorrow would be the earliest that you’d find yourself ready to travel?”  Mycroft queried, as ever having prepared for every eventuality well before the actual call for action.

“Yes. Although I am sure Mary’s parents expected me to depart this morning.  I cannot abandon my patient without sufficient preparation, they will have to understand that.”

I was not particularly sanguine about being reduced to merely Watson’s ‘patient’ in this conversation I was spying upon, but even less tolerant of the implication that I would be left behind in Switzerland whilst my beloved began his journey of bereavement.

The very idea was intolerable! It demanded to be nipped in the bud.  I quit my position outside the door to the study, and entered in high dudgeon.

“You will not be ‘abandoning your patient’ in any event Watson. If it will ease the mind of your in-laws we can be ready to travel within hours.”  I announced.  “We can take a cab to the telegraph office to send that message within the hour and be back before dinner.”

Watson seemed to blanch, his use of the term “abandon” in context to his late wife’s parents was perfectly acceptable, but I know he remembered the accusations I had hurled at him not so very long ago utilizing that very word. I crossed the room and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly to communicate my lack of offense.

Mycroft cleared his throat.  Watson, color somewhat restored, still looked hugely discomfited.

“Holmes, my dear boy!  You will _not_ be accompanying me back to England. You are not yet fit to travel and will not be for another two weeks, at minimum.”  Watson replied, his voice tight.  “You will stay on here, with your brother, Mrs. Hudson and Clark for that additional fortnight. Only then will you attempt to undertake a leisurely journey back to England, in careful stages.”

“No!” I snapped.  “You will not make such a wretched trip alone! I will not remain behind! I will not!”

“Brother, listen to reason…”  Mycroft began.

“Mycroft, do shut up.  This is a matter between myself and Watson,”   I demanded harshly.  Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but subsided into silence.

“I reiterate, Holmes, that you will **not** be coming with me! You were quite undone by a few tablespoons of whiskey in a cup of coffee this morning, your constitution is not yet strong enough for the rigors of a vigorous trip across the Continent!  You will listen to me and for once in your life, obey my instructions as your personal physician!  There is no need for you to endanger your health by returning to London prematurely.  I have business I cannot escape related to Mary’s death, I must attend to it.  You, on the other hand, have the matter of regaining your health to put first and foremost.  The subject is closed!”

“Watson, you may be my physician, but I will not have you condescending to order me about!  I have done little else but recover for weeks and have been especially recumbent in this past week alone.  I am much restored! A trip via express car, no matter how rushed, can be no more taxing than staying on here in utter frustration!  I will **not** be left behind!  I am perfectly fit to withstand –”

To my utter humiliation I lurched forward, black dots dancing before my eyes.  Both Watson and Mycroft shot to their feet, each taking an arm to steady me. 

It was suddenly very hard to draw air, as though my lungs had been clamped in a vice, keeping them from expanding.  I tried to breathe normally, but could do little else but gasp ineffectually.

Watson’s expression went from stern to horrified.  Before I knew what I was about, I was being half carried and half dragged out of the study and down the hall to the master bedroom.  Watson pressed me down until I was sitting at the edge of the bed, bowing my shoulders toward each other, and urging me to lean forward.

“Calm….calm yourself and your mind.  Concentrate on relaxing your chest muscles.  Mycroft, if you’d steady him, while I get my bag?”

Watson’s  hands left me, and my brother’s replaced them.  One of his large appendages  automatically went to my back, tracing large comforting circles across my shoulders, down my ribs and back up again.  It was such an old ritual between us, going back to my earliest memories, that I immediately felt myself relaxing somewhat.

Watson returned, and I felt the sting of a hypodermic in my arm.  I shot him a glare.

“It’s only a small amount, to help your muscles relax.  Now concentrate on taking in the deepest breath possible.  That’s it, old cock.  That’s it.”  He murmured.

After some minutes, my breathing resumed its normal cadence—or as near normal as it could be so soon after an unexpected crisis.

“Surely you see how this proves my point?  You are not fit enough to travel Holmes, you must face the fact.!  And know that while there is nothing I want less than to be parted from you, even if for a finite amount of time, I cannot risk your life indulging in either of our wishes!  Not over the reality of the state of your health!”  Watson’s voice was soft, gentle, his words inarguable.

I let myself go, collapsing onto my side on the bed, shaking my head and shutting my eyes with a will.  Mycroft’s hand yet continued its soothing circles, and Watson held both of my hands in his own.

Fate was seeing fit to cleave us from each other, yet again, and I was helpless to alter the outcome. 

I willed myself down into oblivion to escape the shame and the agony of it.

**


	23. "my whole soul through..."

**Finality:**

**Chapter 23: “my whole soul through”**

L.A. Adolf

 

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I did not dream in my self-imposed oblivion.  Too many memories hovered at the edges for rest, and I found myself pulling away from the images before they could be realized.   

I struggled out of that state to find Watson sitting at my bedside and Gladstone sprawled next to me, his great head on my leg.

“Holmes,” Watson spoke my name softly, relief evident in his tone. He seemed ready to say more, something appropriately doctorly and probably having to do with my insisting on accompanying him back to England, so I spoke first.

“You will not travel alone,” I began, waving Watson to silence as he prepared to object.  “Let me finish! Clarky will accompany you on your journey. I have Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson to look after me—you deserve the same attention.”

“I do not require a companion, I made the trip here quite well by myself, my dear fellow.” Watson soothed, reaching out a hand to skim my forehead as though checking for fever.

“And fainted dead away upon arrival and being told of my condition,” I remarked, grimacing as the hand was followed by a thermometer, which I gestured away vehemently, being in no mood to be thus silenced for the next five or more minutes.

“How do you come to know that?!” Watson fairly sputtered, neglecting to press the thermometer issue in his surprise.

It was a source of some morbid satisfaction that I still retained the ability to confound my dearest doctor. At least I had not lost all my powers to debility.

“I have my methods of being kept informed of everything having to do with you, old boy.  Clark goes with you, or you will have no further cooperation from me.”  I stated.

Watson desperately wanted to argue the point, I could see very plainly, but he finally twigged to the compromise being offered.

“You will accept the reality of your situation if I agree?  And do as you are told for a change?”

I shrugged, “Insofar as I am capable.”

“Holmes…”

“Watson…”

“. . . All right.  I will speak to your brother about it.”  He sighed dramatically. “Mrs. Hudson is preparing a tray for your dinner.  A lovely stew and blanc mange for dessert.  You will eat both since you had only toast and whiskey for breakfast and next to nothing for lunch.”

“Agreed.”  I responded, though neither dish appealed in the least, and would likely prove indigestible around the roiling knot in my stomach.

There was a tension between us that tore at my soul and which amplified bodily complaints tenfold.

“Holmes, if there were any other way,” my dearest Doctor began, those incredible blue eyes speaking volumes he could not say aloud.

I opened my mouth to respond and Watson took the opportunity to shove the thermometer into it.  I was seriously tempted to bite the damned thing in half and spit it out.

As it was, I started rather violently and Gladstone reacted with a surprised yelp and a lunge for Watson’s hand.  I was able to restrain the faithful beast by the barest of margins, quite forgetting to eject the thermometer in my haste to protect my dearest Watson from injury.  I must remember to slip Gladstone most of my dinner in thanks for his display of loyalty and his wish to protect me from medical assaults.

The three of us glared at each other for the next few minutes, until the time came that Watson removed the thermometer from my mouth, which by now ached dreadfully from having to keep the blasted implement in place under my tongue.

Watson frowned.  “You have a slight fever, Holmes.”

I heaved a dramatic sigh that was not even half feigned.  This entire situation was beyond enduring.

“I’m fine.  Stop worrying and let us get back to your trip.”  My tone dripped indifference.

“After everything that you’ve -- we’ve -- gone through in these last weeks, a fever of even one degree is serious, Holmes!!”  Watson’s outrage was heartfelt.

“Truly, Watson, you make too much of a trifle.”  I dismissed, gesturing grandly in my dearest one’s direction.

“Matters concerning your health are not _trifles_! I thought it was you who put a great deal of stock in the small details, Holmes. I distinctly remember you telling Mary… ”

It was one of those unfortunate occurrences that happened in the wake of bereavement, when the wound was yet so fresh as to not have been fully absorbed by mind and memory.

The mention of the dear departed’s name cast an immediate pall over our conversation.  My stomach clenched and lurched, and Watson paled significantly. 

Silences have seldom been uncomfortable between us.  This was one unendurable, devastating and remained unbroken until Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing the tray with my dinner.

I submitted to Watson helping me sit up and Nanny clucking over me, all the while trying to keep my stomach from fleeing the room at the sight and scent of the food.

 

 

 

_Watson:_

How I wished I could have bit off my own tongue before uttering Mary’s name in so careless a manner!

Her loss was still too fresh, such slips were to be tolerated; had someone else uttered her name I would not have lost a beat.  But to see Holmes blanch, then assume an expression of incipient nausea came near to undoing me.

Holmes had a fever.  Slightly over one degree, but that was significant given his recent medical history.  While that supported my utter conviction that he was not yet fit to travel, it did not make me sanguine about leaving him at all.

I might have changed my mind and allowed agents to act in my stead, but whilst Holmes had rested this afternoon following his attack of breathlessness, I had gone to the telegraph office.  I had wired my instructions to both solicitor and in-laws and sketched out my itinerary and expected departure date.  I had forestalled criticism by stating that my patient was in the midst of weathering a crisis and I could not arrange to be away sooner.

It was nothing less than the truth, really. And perhaps I might have been able to leverage that into an apology and an excuse to stay on another two weeks.  But I did have a duty to Mary and to her memory, which I could not, in good conscience, abrogate.

Mrs. Hudson entered with a tray, and our uncomfortable impasse ended. I busied myself fussing over my dearest Holmes,  then by stepping aside and distracting myself in watching Mrs. Hudson do likewise.

Holmes, characteristically, chafed at the attention, but remained silent, enduring the humiliation with clenched jaw.

I might have read another meaning into that physical manifestation of what I assumed was merely a sign of intractability, but I was utterly incompetent apparently, of behaving in anything but the most desultory manner this day.

I sat with Holmes, making sure that he remained true to his word, watching each morsel that passed his lips, insuring that none of the nutrition he so desperately needed detoured Gladstone’s way.  I even congratulated myself when first the stew, then the pudding largely disappeared, only then allowing Holmes to push the tray away.

Mrs. Hudson returned to collect it with brisk efficiency—she must have been hovering outside the door for the entire meal.

“I say, old chap,” Holmes said finally, after we had sat in silence for some minutes, during which I lost myself in just enjoying being with my beloved. I was also basking in the fact that he’d eaten a substantial meal—massaging my niggling conscience.  “I would really like to have a nice warm bath, if you’d excuse me?”

Sherlock Holmes? Not having to be bodily thrown in the direction of a bathtub? ---though to be fair, his problems with hygiene truly did tend to confine themselves to periods when the black mood was upon him.

“By all means, Holmes.  Here, I shall help—”

I got no farther than folding back the bedclothes.

“Watson!  I’ve been bathing myself unaided since I was eight!  I do think I can manage!”  Holmes snapped, somewhat more vehemently than circumstances might have dictated.  But I knew only too well how much his self sufficiency meant to my beloved, especially given his recent and ongoing issues with his own incapacity.  I stood back and watched him make his way to the water closet, albeit a bit unsteadily.

I set about retrieving a fresh nightshirt and small clothes, hearing the water being turned on and flowing into the spacious master bathtub, well on my  way to convincing myself that all was right with my world.

Then I heard it. Though the thundering sound of flowing water did a creditable job of masking the noise, it was unmistakable. 

The sound of violent retching.

Fortunately, the Swiss do not believe in locks on bathroom doors.  I charged into the water closet and found Holmes, on his knees, being violently sick into the porcelain bowl of the toilet.

My poor, poor, dearest Holmes!

There was nothing to be done but to hold his head and stroke his back until he was quite finished, then to flush the evidence of an ill-considered meal away. 

I stood him up, gave him a glassful of water to rinse the bilious taste from his mouth, helped him disrobe, ignoring weak protests, violent blushes and objections, then aided him into the now full tub.

The warm water would be a balm to overstrained abdominal muscles, would further help relax any lingering tenseness in the chest wall, and would hopefully soothe my darling towards a healthful, restful night’s sleep.  I’d ring Mrs. Hudson to bring warm milk once we were done here and Holmes was once more settled into the bed.  While no replacement for a good meal, it would be gentler on his stomach and stand more chance of staying down long enough to be of some good.

I picked up a washrag and arranged myself into the best position to bathe my dearest one, soaping up the cloth and setting to work, humming softly.

“W-watson!  Truly!  This is completely unnecessary…”  Holmes fidgeted in the tub, snatching the washcloth and attempting, charmingly, to use it to cover up his private regions.  His natural pallor was quite altered by violent blushing that seemed to range from head to toes.

“Hush!”  I murmured, removing another cloth from the nearby stack and setting about the ablutions again.  “Relax and calm yourself.  You are too overwrought and I have been too harsh with you.  You’ve had your twenty-four hours of taking care of me; it is now my turn again.”

I had the sudden, and perhaps somewhat inappropriate thought that Mary was now beyond all hurt and scandal, there would be no trauma to follow a declaration that it was not her I loved and not she that I wished to spend the rest of my life with.

Our way was now clear to be together to begin our journey towards the more perfect union I knew that we both desired and that right now, we could begin by taking the first steps long the path of our commitment to each other.

Holmes, by whatever accident of childhood or conscious decision to subsume all to the needs of his mind, was never comfortable with touching and being touched.  By sudden insight, I saw that this was no longer the insurmountable barrier I had thought it once to be. 

He was like a fine thoroughbred, nervous and high strung, requiring consummate care in gentling, the most exquisite handling to overcome aversion to tactile stimulation.

We would begin here, more recovered than he was when last I bathed him in his sick bed.  My touch would be a promise of more to come, an invitation to experience all that our life together would eventually have to offer. 

By such small steps might everything we had gone through be ultimately justified, and all our sorrows eventually transformed into ecstasy.

 

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

My humiliation should have been complete.  Not only had Watson found me throwing up the meal he’d gone to such pains to see me ingest, I’d been stripped of my clothing and deposited in the bathtub in precisely the same manner that my nanny had done when I was but four years old.

Amendment to that thought.  Not precisely the same manner.  My nurse had been all brisk efficiency, scrubbing tender skin with no mercy and dunking me under the bathwater without sufficient warning to hold my breath.

Watson was nothing like that.

His touch was reassuring, possessed of the utmost delicacy.  The care he took in cleansing me so piquant that I was quite abashed.

 I have ever been overly sensitive to touch and have consequently limited my exposure to it in order to maintain focus and control.

For the first time in my life, quite unexpectedly, I began to see the possibilities in relaxing that vigilance.

I had to close my eyes against the power of that realization.

I saw in his bathing of me, not an attempt at domination or distraction, but something not unlike what my own exploration of his sleeping body had been all those days ago.  A subtle claiming, an exploration of possessiveness without its binding chains.

I was transported.  And at the same time found myself paralyzed by awkwardness and bashfulness.

One part of me desperately wanted this and more of it, another screamed out an objection to the proffered promise of further intimacy, crying against danger and vulnerability inherent in its acceptance.

I opened eyes I’d clamped shut early in this tender ritual, and turned them upon Watson, who hummed softly over his labors, his handsome features transformed by a glowing countenance of love so bright and shining; I almost had to close them again.

“It’s all right, my dearest boy.  You are safe with me.  I will not hurt you or cause you the least distress, you have my word,” he murmured. I reached out a hand, cupping it briefly to his cheek, then cautiously laying it behind his neck and drawing him closer.




“I can offer nothing more than this, now, my dearest, but if I might?”  I asked tentatively, shyly, as his face drew close to mine, yielding willingly to my insistent pressure.

“With utmost pleasure, my darling…” he breathed, and then he could say no more because I had claimed that beautiful mouth with my own.

My future unfurled before me, and I celebrated it, knowing I was, in this moment totally lost to the passion I had denied for so very long. 

I imprinted Watson on my soul, on every fibre of my body, breathed him into my lungs and tucked him safely into every nook and cranny of my mind and memory.

It would make our forced separation intolerable, I knew that now, but I accepted the consequences, for the promise of what our future would ultimately hold.

**

 

 

_Watson:_

The irony should have been bitter.  In the loss of one love I had been claimed body and soul by another, more powerful, more transformative.

The kiss exceeded my wildest, most fevered imaginings—even though relatively chaste and sweet in its delivery.  It was over too soon, of course, even though we’d both been nearly blue for the lack of air, its actually duration having been unstinting.

If this was the farthest our devotion could ever take us, strangely, it would be enough, for our spirits had merged with each other, even if our bodies had not.

There was no more awkwardness between us, just a comfortable soul-deep sense of satisfaction and harmony that brought tears to our eyes, which we wiped away unashamedly.

I completed my worship of my beloved’s body, drying off glistening hair and glowing flesh, wrapping him in towels and then helping him to slip into his night shirt, and back into the bed.

I sent for the warm milk, and a bit more of the blanc mange, and my dearest was able to take both without discomfort. 

I sat in complete and utter wonderment as he drifted down towards sleep, indulgently studying how those beloved eyelids grew heavier and heavier over the liquid brown eyes, how the dark lashes fanned across cheeks that still retained a bit of color from the bath, and possibly from our kiss.

I crawled into the bed after a comfortable few hours spent just gazing upon my love, molding my body to his, drawing him into my arms.

There were dreams in the middle of that perfect night, that caused my dearest one to cry out and fret, but he soon settled under the soothing of my hands, and a murmured, “I am here.”

Tomorrow I could expect some word from Anstruther and my preparations to leave must begin in earnest, but I was fortified for the trial ahead by the knowledge, that a most perfect love and commitment would be waiting for me on the other side of this duty-wrought abyss.

_Once he drew  
With one long kiss  
my whole soul through  
My lips_

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Fatima (1833)_

_***_


	24. "cast into the sea..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co author credit to Piplover on LJ for valiant assistance on this chapter. Thank you for the brainstorming, the handholding, and for channel Mycroft when he wouldn't talk to me!

**Finality:**

**Chapter 24: “cast into the sea”**

By L.A. Adolf and Piplover

 

_It were better for him that a millstone were  
hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea,  
 than that he should offend one of these little ones._

_Holy Bible, King James version, Luke ch 17, verse 2_

 

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I dreamt in the night.

The old nightmare.

Watson was leaving, going where I could not.

The agony of it was excruciating.

The last time I’d dream this particular dream was on the eve of his wedding.  The time before that, the night of Blackwood’s death, when I had sought to end my own misery in macabre imitation of the evil Lord’s demise.

“Watson!” I cried out in the night, startling myself awake.

His strong, loving arms were wrapped around me, they tightened, and his precious voice whispered in my ear. 

“I am here.”

A soothing hand ghosted across my forehead, down the side of my face.

A peace descended, and I settled, falling into nothingness once again.

It was but a temporary respite, all too soon my night terror would be reality, but for now, it was enough.

 

_Watson:_

Holmes’s fever was not better – in fact, a half degree higher – the next morning.

He chafed to be up and about, stating with perfect honesty that he did not wish to be parted from me for even a minute of this last day together before I must return to London.

I could not sanction it, and endeavored, in the kindest way possible to impress upon him the importance of his staying abed until his fever lowered. To insure his cooperation, I promised him to stay near.

This presented a grave problem.

At some point, today, likely in the post meridian, Anstruther’s telegram should arrive, bearing his findings of Mary’s post mortem examination.

It was important that I receive that communication in privacy, for reasons I myself did not fully understand.

For all our medical and scientific advances in our modern age, we had still not conquered death, nor perfected our understanding of how the young and seemingly healthy sometimes died suddenly and without clear explanation, whilst the aged continued vigorous into very advanced years.  I often wondered if we ever would.  Holmes knew this as well as I. 

I expected and had no doubt, that the causes were natural, that no crime had been committed against my wife.  Given that, it perhaps should not have mattered if Holmes was privy to whatever information the telegram might bear.

Yet, some presentiment told me that I must, at the very least, be cautious in sharing Anstruther’s communication with my dearest.  The brain fever was not so very far in the past, his current state of health still precarious, any agitation might have unforeseen consequences.

His brother Mycroft agreed with me.

Between us, we hit on a plan to distract his brother.  As the afternoon wore on, I announced my intention to take my usual constitutional, and avail Gladstone of an airing as well.  I determined to use this break to traverse to the telegraph office, and if the telegram had not yet arrived, leave instructions for its delivery.  If nothing else, I could collect it as I departed Leuk the next morning, bound for London.

The plan was simple. The ever affable Clarky was pressed into service, requesting of Holmes one last violin lesson before he was due to leave with me the next day.  Clark was an apt pupil and was well on his way to becoming a very serviceable violin player, and Holmes genuinely enjoyed playing tutor to him. He held Clark in a great deal of regard and one might almost say affection, and when the time came, was unable to deny the good Constable the request.   Clark positioned himself in a chair next to Holmes’s bed and the lesson began.




Announcing my walk, and affixing Gladstone to his lead, we were soon on our way.

As it happened, I had not gotten more than halfway to the telegraph office when I met the same young messenger who had delivered the sad news of Mary’s death two days before.  He did indeed bear the expected communiqué, and recognizing me from his prior visit to the chalet, handed it off, happy to be able to cut his errand time in half and receive a handsome tip on top of it all.

I also took the precaution, knowing my Holmes, of exacting a promise from the officious young man, that no copy of this telegram would be divulged to anyone else, no matter who they pretended to be, however inarguably demanded or handsomely bribed. 

I stood staring at the envelope into which the form had been placed for some minutes, until Gladstone tugged at his lead and announced his intention of returning to the chalet.  I smiled down at our pet, who had bonded so deeply with Holmes, and gave him his head.

I could not, of course, return to the chalet, telegram unread, such a course of action would render null and void all the precaution I’d just taken.  As I passed the bench Holmes and I had occupied some time earlier, I decided to pause, peruse the contents, commit them to memory and decide how best to dispose of the transcribed version.

Gladstone grumbled a bit, but took the opportunity to tend to bodily business and then stretch out in the shade for a bit.

I removed the telegram from the envelope, and unfolded the paper.

The world shifted on its axis and in spite of the fact that it was a warm day; I was taken over by a profound chill, stunned beyond comprehension.

When Gladstone stood and proceeded towards the chalet a moment later, I followed, completely dazed and unaware of my movement.

 

**

_Mycroft Holmes:_

I had watched Dr. Watson leave for the telegraph office, and spent a few further minutes lingering to watch as Sherlock began Clark’s violin lesson, marveling at how much enjoyment my brother seemed to take in playing tutor to his favorite Yarder.  It was, as ever, a private joy to see Sherlock take an interest so avid in anything, especially in the aftermath of these last weeks.

Then the press of duty was upon me.  I was also my brother’s protector, and had determined that I must act as second to Watson, in case, by some circumstance, the telegraph office messenger should miss the good doctor’s intervention.  Should he happen on the house, not having met Watson along the way, I must take custody of the telegram and guard its contents until its rightful recipient should return.

I removed myself from the house entirely, positioning myself at the edge of the chalet property.  I stood smoking for some minutes, then took to pacing, then seated myself on the stump of a tree a few yards from the front door of the house.  I could hear the strains of Sherlock’s violin playing, followed by Clark’s creditable imitation, and hear the charming sound of my brother laughing in delight in apparent response to something Clark must have said during a break in the music.

I sighed, wondering how we were ever going to manage for another two weeks, with both Watson and Clark gone to London.

Some minutes later, I heard the approach of Watson and Gladstone, the dog chuffing as though he was pulling against more than the usual resistance of his lead.  I stood and looked toward the street, watching as the pair hove into view.

Dr. Watson looked positively ashen, and moved with the stiffness and distraction of the profoundly shocked.  I hurried to intercept him.

**

_Watson:_

In retrospect, I was fortunate that it was Mycroft Holmes who approached and removed the telegram from my numb hand, had it been Sherlock Holmes I could not, in that moment have done anything to prevent him from reading it.

Mycroft glanced over the contents of the communication.

“I understand ‘ectopic’ to be from the Greek ‘ektopis’—meaning out of place, and I understand the term ‘interstitial’ but not in the medical sense of either term. And I’m complete confounded by ‘cornual’.  Could you enlighten me, Doctor?”

Mycroft’s firm grip on my forearm grounded me somewhat.  I tried to marshal my wits to answer him, as agonizing as the words were.

“Mary was with child. She died as a result of hemorrhagic shock.  The fetus was growing outside the womb. In this case it implanted in the ostium of a fallopian tube. When it reached approximately eight weeks of development it burst the tube and concomitantly ruptured the Sampson artery. She bled out, probably within minutes.”

Mycroft looked at me in perfect shock.

*

_Mycroft Holmes:_

 

I seized Watson by the elbow and moved swiftly away from the street. 

Gladstone uttered a brief protest as I hurried the pair of them into the garden behind the chalet, but Watson seemed only vaguely cognizant of the change of venue. He was still ashen, still appeared deeply dazed.

There was a small gazebo at the far end of the plot where I had spent some few peaceful hours in quiet meditation.  It was here that I led the doctor and the dog.  It had the advantage of being partially shielded from the chalet proper due to its placement, and out of earshot as well.

Gladstone was sufficiently intrigued by the new scents of the garden patch that he satisfied himself in ranging over what he could at the length of his lead, which was fortunate; his return would signal to Sherlock that the doctor had as well, and questions would follow.

I pressed Watson down on the bench that lined the structure, hoping to forestall what seemed a certain swoon.

Of course Watson slept with his wife.  And of course, children were a natural product of connubial relations.  And yet, with his feelings about my brother so far from settled – to the point that he abandoned hearth and home at the mere suggestion that Sherlock had gone after Moriarty without him – had he truly been so careless of biological consequences?

The man was so completely devastated by the news, it seemed unnecessarily cruel to confront him on this issue, but, this involved my fragile brother, who loved only one way, with all his heart and soul.  And the consequences of this circumstance had such potential for complete calamity, that I could not help myself.

“Did you not wear a sheepskin?"  I demanded.

 “I was married!  When proper precautions are taken, a sheepskin is not needed!"  Watson replied defensively, a bit of color returning to the gray features. 

“And yet, obviously, you did not take them.”

“Yes, I slept with her!  Damn it, Mycroft, she was my WIFE!"

“And yet you had feelings for another. Feelings conflicted enough that you readily abandoned that wife to chase after him!”  I countered.  The fetal age stated in the telegram suddenly leapt out at me, Watson’s bedding of his wife had coincided with his abrupt departure from London. 

I paused, ran my hand down my face as the full realization struck.

"I see.  Well, Doctor, forgive me.  I had thought that your departure after my brother was the only thing on your mind that day.  I fear I was wrong.” 

 "Don't you dare!  Don't you dare insinuate that my love for Holmes is anything less than everything within me!"

 

 "I am not insinuating anything, Doctor.” I replied. I did not relish beating the poor man down to the ground, but I found that it was necessary to be cruel to be kind.  “The facts speak for themselves.”

 "I loved my wife, you bastard!" Watson was nearly apoplectic with outrage.

 "Loved her so much that you fled to be with your other beloved!  Tell me, Doctor.  If she had lived to give birth, would you still have devoted yourself to my brother? Or would you have abandoned him again, flying back to your wife and normal life?”  I pressed the issue almost beyond my own endurance.  Only for Sherlock would I subject myself to such an emotional scene, let alone instigate one.

“ I DON’T know!” he cried.

Watson seemed to crumble before me.  His expression became one of absolute, undiluted horror. 

The stuff the man was made of asserted itself. Fast on the heels of that cataclysmic admission, he pulled himself up and squared his shoulders.

 

_Watson:_

“ I DON’T know!” I cried.  The thought was as raw as my nerves, completely spontaneous, and absolutely unedited.

The admission terrified me beyond the capacity of anything I had faced before—war, sickness and death included.

I had never before considered a child.  Mary and I had not discussed the issue seriously, there had always seemed more important matters to be placed in precedence.  My distraction with Holmes’s behavior before our marriage and my horrified fascination of his frenetic activity after it, had precluded any consideration that eminently domestic.

In all my years I had always been so very careful, a kind of security had settled around me.  Mary had been the difference to all my other lovers. 

It had not occurred to me, that last night or the ones previous, that my precautions, though lax at times, would ever fail.  Or, indeed, were truly needed.

She had been my wife, after all, and safe from the diseases which would make a sheepskin an absolute necessity.

 

 Children.... A baby... Had never crossed my mind. I had even, somewhere in the corner of my mind, convinced myself that I was unable to sire children.

And now I found out that at the worst possible time, on the cusp of a journey that was to fundamentally alter the fabric and foundation of my world, that all that had been mistaken supposition.

“I don’t know!”  I repeated, horrified.

The bench next to me registered a protest as Mycroft’s backside made sudden acquaintance with it, the damnable man collapsing, pale upon it, looking nearly as devastated as I must.  This much emotion must be trying his nerves to the breaking point.  I might have smiled at my ability to empathize with my tormentor, had the situation not been so very heartbreaking.  And had I still not been so incredibly angered at the truths he was making me face.

"I don't know," I said a third time.  "I had never thought of it, Mycroft.  For God’s sake, man, I have only just found out!  I don't know how I feel right now, or what I would have done!  I like to think that I would not have subjected a child of mine to a false marriage, but I do not know."

"The decision would not have been yours at any rate, Doctor. Sherlock would never have tolerated such falsehood to exist. Much as it pains me to admit it, he would have rather walked off a bridge than stand by and see a child suffer the same fate as... He would never have stood for it."

Utter horror was heaped upon utter horror by the elder Holmes’s sibling’s statement as much for what he didn’t say as for what he did.

"What do you mean?"  A sudden terror filled my heart at the implications being presented to me by those few words.  "Mycroft, what do you mean?"

"It does not matter, Doctor.  The decision would have been made for you, and regardless of your feelings for my brother, or his for you, your actions would have had consequences."

"Mycroft, damn it! What. Did. You. Mean?!"  It was all I could do to restrain myself from reaching out and shaking the answer out of him.

"Had it never occurred to you to wonder why Sherlock shied away from emotions and relationships before you?  Why he yet cannot bring himself to allow himself free rein?"

Of course it had, more than once—more than a hundred times. I’d have sold my soul a dozen times over to know the reason.  In the face of finally knowing the answer, I could only nod.

"Sherlock has never, not since the day he was born, believed himself to be loveable, though I have tried my hardest to undo our parents work.  You see, Doctor, Sherlock, himself, was a child of a ‘false marriage’ as you put it."

I think my jaw might have dropped open at the revelation. I do know that my mouth became suddenly dry and my throat tightened.

“For my father had been prepared to leave my mother when Sherlock was conceived.  And he stayed, hating both her and Sherlock, until the day he passed from this world. And she, in turn, hated what had become a millstone around her neck.”

How my heart and mind survived a day with such unrelenting shock and agony, I will never understand. In the midst of the anguish I was further assailed by the memory of  another day, another confrontation, and my beloved Holmes shouting at me, in the face of my declaration of my love for him:

_“How can you want me? You have everything you have dreamed of, and I am the millstone around your neck.  You should have let me cut the rope that tethers me here.”_ __

“Oh. My. God. My poor darling.” The words were barely a breath expelled, not that I cared if Mycroft heard them.  

And heard them he most certainly had.

"I have not told you these things so you could pity him," Mycroft snapped.  "But so that you could understand!  You say you don't know what your next action would have been, but I can assure you, it would not have included a life with my brother."

I floundered, wanting to deny that fact, cry out that nothing this side of the vale would have kept me parted from him. But then I remembered his earlier comment—how his brother would have walked off a bridge – and understood it now to be not merely a turn of phrase but a certitude.

“You must understand, Doctor.  He cannot know of this! It would destroy him.  He is only now coming to accept that you were going to leave your wife for him.  I doubt he could ever be convinced you would have left a child. He believes you to be – he KNOWS – you are too honorable a man to have ever done to his child, what his own father did to him.”

My heart ached in my chest, and I wondered that it did not shatter altogether. I could not speak, I could barely breathe.

"I know you are a noble man, John Watson.  You would have been an excellent father, and you were a dutiful husband. I have not said any of this to be cruel, but so that you would understand.”

"What am I supposed to do now, then?” I found my voice again, finally, if the strangled, pitiful thing emitting from my throat could be called that. “Tell me, Mycroft!  I cannot grieve in front of Sherlock for it will destroy him!  Yet I do!  What course am I to take?!  Tell me what I _do now?_!" 

"You grieve with me, dear boy. Here and now. And then, however impossible it must seem,  you must let it go, if only for a night, until you are back in England.  Until then, I beg you, let it go, and accept the life you have now. My brother is too fragile to know of this, and he will see in your face that something is amiss. Only one night, Doctor.  Only one night of accepting for now.  Please."

Mycroft placed one great hand to my shoulder and squeezed with such consummate gentleness, that I was completely and utterly undone. I collapsed into his arms, and was enfolded in an embrace of perfect empathy, and together, we wept.

For what had been. For what never would be. And for a little boy who had come into the world amidst the ruins of his parent’s marriage, and who was still paying the price for their negligence.

**

 

 


	25. "two loves have I of comfort and despair..."

**Finality: **

**Chapter 25: ** **Two loves I have of comfort and despair** ****

 

_L.A. Adolf_

** _“Two loves I have for comfort and despair_ ** ** _   
_ ** ** _Which like two spirits do suggest me still:_ ** ** _   
_ ** ** _The better angel is a man right fair_ ** **   
** ** _The worser spirit a woman…_ **

** _“… I guess one angel in another's hell:_ ** ** _   
_ ** ** _Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,_ ** ** _   
_ ** ** _Till my bad angel fire my good one out.”_ **

** _Shakespeare, Sonnet 144_ ** ****

****

 

_Mycroft Holmes:_

Once grief had been given her due, and Watson had composed himself, I ordered him to take another turn about the street.  The extra time and physical activity would allow his physiology to settle down from the emotional breakdown, and help him calm his thoughts. Gladstone, by now, was restive and did not complain at the extended perambulation.

I looked down at the telegram I still held in my hand—now a crumpled mass balled in my fist—before I did anything else, I must see to its destruction. There was no need to keep it, the contents burned into both our brains and it presented too much of a risk. My brother might yet still be working on recovering his wits and his full intellectual powers, but he was well on his way to his normal ability to function. If any scrap of this cursed missive remained, he would eventually find it.

If Providence was willing, he would never know of the findings of Watson’s esteemed colleague.  I had to hope that the fact that the death was, ultimately natural – parturition ever being dangerous state rife with inherent and sometimes fatal consequences—and not the result of foul play or accident, would tide us through. That my brother for once would accept what he was told at face value.

I had to hope, pray and plan.

I arranged myself at the edge of the chalet property, lighting my pipe with a match and using the latter to set the longitudinal edge of the paper alight. I held on to the telegram, nearly singeing my fingers to be sure that no scrap survived the flames.  What ash remained I scattered to the four winds.

I watched from a distance as Watson returned, noticed how bent shoulders had righted and squared themselves once again, and an aspect once cast in the most profound grief reset itself to a perfect equanimity.

He was a remarkable man, my brother’s John Hamish Watson.  He was well suited to Sherlock, complement in so much by way of personality, but equal and echo in strength of purpose and courage.

I must do everything in my not inconsiderable power to ensure the life these two were destined to share.

 

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I heard my darling approach, before the door to the bedchamber ever cracked open.

Clarky and I were sitting, companionably grinning at each other after a successful violin duet.  Clark truly was a man of remarkable talents, who should be running Scotland Yard, not merely a constable within it. Treatment of the Irish being what it was, that would probably not ever happen, but perhaps between Mycroft and myself, we could see that he reached something close to the potential that he possessed.

 “I declare, Watson, Clarky has become so accomplished on the violin, that I am sending him back to London with a letter of recommendation!  He’s certainly far superior to the 2nd chair of the current sitting symphony!  He’ll be the toast of all Europe before he’s through.”  I spoke, setting my Stradivarius aside, without breaking eye contact with Clark, who fairly glowed under the recommendation.

I swung my gaze over to Watson, who stood in the doorway, and my bonhomie vanished.

Outwardly he seemed my generally unflappable Watson, cheeks a bit flush from exercise perhaps, face set into a pleasant expression.  But the eyes. There was something in his eyes for the barest of moments, the fleeting agony of a grievous wound that set off every nerve in my body in alarm.

I was up and off the bed in an instant.  I took his arm and guided him to the wing chair nearest the bed.  “What has happened?” I asked sharply.

Watson roused himself to what promised to be a vigorous protest.  “Holmes! Get back in bed this instant! You’ve still got a fever!”  He made to rise from the chair, so I pushed him back down into it, albeit with a gentle pressure.

“I do not! My temperature has normalized!”  I rejoined pointedly.

“Your cheeks are flushed and your hands are shaking. Back in the bed. Now. Please.” 

I could not bear to have these last hours together marred by harsh words or unnecessary intractability, so I complied, sighing dramatically and rolling my eyes for comedic effect in Clarky’s direction.

“As you command, Mother He—”  I was unable to finish the word as the dreaded thermometer was popped into my mouth and a long fingered, and infinitely gentle hand encouraged my jaw closed, then reached to bring the bedclothes up around me.

I fixed my darling Doctor with one of my patented glares, genuinely perturbed that I had been effectively silenced for the next five minutes by such devious design.  Watson completely ignored me, focusing all his attention on some idle chitchat with Clark –related to my recommendation of his ability as a budding violinist.

Although my glare was in no way directed at him, Clark –if not Watson, alas—grew uncomfortable under its intensity.  As the five minutes concluded, Clark made his excuses and rose to leave the room, having slipped the fine Swiss violin, which I had given him some time before, into its case. While I hated to see him withdraw, it would make puling what was wrong from Watson somewhat easier for the privacy.

Watson plucked the thermometer from my mouth and scrutinized it intently.

"See, Watson, back to normal!  Now, what has you so out of sorts?" I made to throw off the bedclothes, and clamber back out of the bed. I _felt_ fever-free, certainly I must be.

"You have an odd way of reading a thermometer, old chap. Especially from practically across the room!   It has gone down a half degree, but you are still one degree over normal!"

His strong right hand planted itself in the middle of my chest and restrained me from rising. Watson was perched on the edge of the mattress, fixing me with a fond, but somehow delicately strained expression.

“I have never been _normal!_” I sniffed, feigning the most profound disdain for the very idea.  “I was playing the Stradivarius rather strenuously, it is nothing more than the heat of exertion.”

Watson sighed. “Holmes!”

I put on the air of one properly chastened, “I’m sorry, Watson.  I got carried away.  Now tell me what has upset you so.” 

I tilted my head down, as though contrite, and looked up through my eyelashes at him. It was a look calculated to disarm, and it generally did, except for the famous time during the Blackwood case when it earned me a bloodied nose.

This time it was having its more reliable effect, Watson softened.

And I pounced.

“Anstruther’s telegram arrived, did it not?”  I accused. Gently.

He was good, my doctor, but he could not control the slight flinch, or the shadow that flicked across his eyes.  I had hit upon the raw nerve.

With a soldier’s courage, he hid his wound.

“Yes, Holmes.  I received the telegram.  As they—and I—thought, Mary died of natural causes, nothing criminal or untoward involved."

The words, I perceived, were true.  As far as they went. That they did not go far enough was singular and at least to I, who knew him so well, obvious.

Still, I could not torture my dear by probing further.  Our hours together grew too short to waste them in unnecessary conflict and pain.

I vowed to myself that I would have the full story.  If not immediately, which was improbable due to my cursed weakness, our present location, and my darling’s aggrieved state, then once I was back in England.  With the resources of that vast city before me, my network of Irregulars and police contacts?  I would have even the most minute details of the passing of Mrs. Watson and be able to draw my own conclusions.

 “Where is the telegram?”  I asked it more because he would expect me to do so, whether he realized it or not, than because I was confident of receiving an answer. 

"I'm sorry, I don't know. I - It was a bit overwhelming, Holmes."  Watson replied, truthfully.

I wanted to bolt from the room and retrace his footsteps, have the details that had rent his heart in half, but I could not.  As my physical state stood, I’d probably collapse before I got past the hallway, and it would do nothing but aggravate my dearest John.  I must play the dutiful patient, and ignore the unfolding mystery, to pursue it at a later date.

I covered the hand that still rested against my breast with both of my own.

The touch had the most singular affect, Watson almost started, then looked at me with a kind of desperate, bewildered hunger.

“You know that I love you, don’t you?”  His tone was uncharacteristically beseeching, a fact perhaps more unsettling than anything that had just occurred in this strained conversation.

“Of course, dear boy!”  I hastened to reassure.  While I might wonder at the incongruity of someone as good and true as Watson loving someone as unworthy on so many levels as myself, I did not doubt that he did, and always had.  The need in his voice is what was so profoundly disturbing in that moment. 

“I’m so sorry Holmes!” he blurted unaccountably. “I-I—”

“Hush, Watson!” I pulled him instantly into my arms and held him tight, drawing the noble head against my chest, feeling the wetness as the tears began to flow.

He loved Mary, I knew –had ever known-- that.  I understood more clearly now, in the wake of these weeks of sickness, anguish and misunderstanding, that he had battled constantly against the conflicting emotions that must always follow when one loves –perhaps not equally, but deeply nonetheless—two people at the same time.  He deserved the time to fully grieve her.  I had never hated the woman, and her memory deserved no less.

“It is all right to grieve, my friend.  You have done so very little of it, I am almost glad to see the tears."  I murmured, stroking his back and drawing him more fully into my arms.

He gave himself over to them, but only for the most brief time, before he lifted his head up, so that he could look me in the eyes. 

The desolation in those beautiful blue orbs came close to unmanning me.

"If _you_ love _me_—”  He began.  I could not stop myself from blurting my own declaration in response.

“Never doubt that I do! That I always have!” I cried out, quite in spite of my usual self control. 

He smiled ever so briefly, and in that instant I was transported  by the knowledge that for once in my life I had said precisely the right thing, in the right moment in such an emotional circumstance.

“--may we consider this a closed matter and no longer speak of it?  Will you be accepting in your mind, that it was natural and nothing could be done?"  He finished his thought with such utter allure that I would have promised anything just to please him.

“Of course my dearest.” I mouthed the words, and in that instant meant them.  At least for that instant.  “Be peaceful in your mind on that score, my darling.  Now rest yourself and allow yourself the release you need to heal, I am here and I have you.” I soothed, urging him to lay his head back down against my chest.

Watson was silent for the most scant moment.

 “Please, Holmes. I will have time to cry later.  Let me just enjoy you now.  Let me just hold you." He entreated.

It was my heart’s delight to grant him his wish.

When Watson’s mouth found mine, I set about putting to use the lessons I had learned when last we had enjoyed ourselves thus.

And yet even as we comforted each other a conviction seated itself deeply in my heart.

For my beloved, I would still have the truth.  He would never need to know it, I would make sure he would not.  But I had to know to protect.

And know I would.

**

Mycroft Holmes:

 

My brother was sufficiently recovered to insist upon, and be granted permission to accompany our party to the train station on the next  morning, the day of the departure of Watson and Clark.

We were only later to find out that with his usual acuity, my brother had been experimenting with the thermometer.  He had discovered just how long to immerse the medical instrument in a glass of cool water, to effect the subsequent reading of his temperature in a downward direction. 

So it was that although his fever had actually risen, Sherlock was up and dressed before any of us, fussing over his Watson and playing the role of robust and jovial master of the house.

I was not entirely fooled, but also realized that Dr. Watson needed to begin to undertake his journey with as clear a heart and mind as possible.  That the pair had spent their last hours together in mutually beneficial state of perfect harmony was obvious, in spite of the incipient pain of the forthcoming parting, they glowed with a rapport seldom seen this side of a honeymoon suite.

Sherlock was stalwart and brave as he buttoned up his doctor’s waistcoat, checked his pockets for handkerchiefs, pocket watches and small coins.  He slipped a bag of humbugs into his dearest’s jacket pocket, having carefully commissioned Mrs. Hudson to locate the candy treat in the shops of Leuk at some point earlier.  He issued a series of cautions and instructions, both private and public about the care and feeding of his dear Watson to Clark, which the good constable suffered with his usual great good humor.

Arm in arm at the station, my brother put on the performance of his life as he bid his beloved goodbye, comporting himself as one dear friend seeing another off on a journey of many miles.

It was only after the train chuffed away from the station, and Watson’s head ducked inside the car from where he had maintained his position on the car’s loading platform for that final view of Sherlock that the toll for this prolonged feat came due for reckoning.

My brother lurched where he stood, and suddenly grew so pale that his skin seemed almost transparent.  It was only by collecting myself and leaping forward that I was able to soften the landing of a collapse that drove him right to the ground.

**


	26. "all remedies refusing"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-authored this chapter Piplover on LJ, who stepped in to help when Clarky would not speak to me!

 

 

** Finality: **

** Chapter 26: “all remedies refusing…” **

** **

L.A. Adolf and Piplover

_ Love is a sickness full of woes,  
All remedies refusing. _

_ Samuel Daniel, Hymen’s Triumph 1615 _

_ Mycroft: _

“Mycroft, leave me alone.I’ll be all right in a moment.”My brother snapped from within the circle of my arms.

I put a hand to his forehead—it was blazing or so it seemed to my overwrought sensibilities—with fever.“God damn it, Sherlock, you are NOT all right.”

“I will be,” my brother complained, “if you will stop your infernal fussing!”

We had drawn a bit of a crowd, else I might have dropped him where he lay and stalked off.Instead I took advantage of the offer made by a depot porter.Together we levered Sherlock to his feet, then the porter rushed off to hail a cab.

“You are going back to the hospital, Brother Mine,” I threatened, half intending to carry through on the vow.

“NO!”Sherlock shouted his too thin body galvanizing beneath my supporting arm. “Back to the chalet!Once there I will submit to whatever you require of me. I will not set foot back inside that hospital!”

I harrumphed, and with the returned porter’s aid, bundled my brother into the hansom and returned us to the chalet.

_ Clark: _

I was on my guard, as Doctor Watson came back into the train car, and as circumstances unfolded, it was a very good thing. 

Had I not known that we were alone on this special, save for the engineer, brakeman and other railroad employees, I might have thought that he’d been cold cocked as he stood on the platform, waving goodbye to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.As he entered the car, he staggered and lurched forward, folding up just like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

I caught him in my arms, loosened his collar and  gave the poor man a drink from my flask, then settled him as comfortably as possible on the hard bench beneath him. Dr. Watson was pale as a ghost, and just as wrung out, but he had held himself together for so long it was no wonder the strain was catching up to him.

When he began to weep, I politely turned my back and retrieved the violin Mr. Holmes had given me, and set about easing his grief the best way I –and Mr. Sherlock who had recommended this--knew how.

For the rest of that long journey very little sleep was to be found.  When not weeping and visibly trying to control himself, nightmares plagued the good doctor’s sleep and left him more exhausted than before he retired .

Once, in the early hours of the morning, with his tears still wet upon his face, Doctor Watson spoke to me of his circumstances, as though retelling the horror of it would negate its effects. Perhaps it did.  When he had fallen to weeping uncontrollably again, I had given him my flask, and urged him to get right roaring drunk, as befits a man lost in the early stages of grief. If nothing else, the pain in his head come the morning would ease some of the pain in his heart.

_ Mrs. Hudson: _

I was not entirely surprised when the Brothers Holmes returned from the rail station, the elder brother all but carrying the younger into the house. 

I had been certain I had detected the light of heightened fever in Mr. Sherlock’s eyes earlier that morning, never mind what Dr. Watson’s thermometer might have had to say on the matter.

The Doctor might have seen it too, save that he was in a right state, both from having received that fateful telegram -- the contents of which Mr. Mycroft Holmes had revealed to me to better enlist my aid in keeping the same information from his sibling -- and from having to leave at all.Sometimes we see only what we desire to see, and I think if the good doctor had correctly read the condition of his most dear friend that final morning, he’d have torn himself in two, between duty and love. 

I helped Mr. Mycroft get this brother undressed and settled. It was a mark of how poorly Mr. Sherlock felt that he did not even voice a single protest at my presence. I’d been married and raised children, some of them boys, had he been stripped naked it would be nothing I’d not seen before. 

Mr. Mycroft sent immediately for a doctor from the hospital, who arrived and conducted a thorough examination of a very subdued Sherlock Holmes.The doctor had been one of those who had helped care for him during his recent stay in the hospital, Mycroft informed me, and was familiar with his case.

“He does have a fever of 101, however, I do not believe we need to worry about a relapse of the brain fever as no other signs are present,” the doctor told us as we stood in the hallway outside the master bedroom.“Watch him carefully, keep him confined to bed, plenty of fluids and a bland, light diet.If the fever has not resolved within forty-eight hours, bring him to the hospital and we will reassess his condition at that time.”The doctor advised. 

“If not a relapse, what can this be?”Mycroft asked pointedly, like his brother he dealt best in concrete facts and not ambiguities.

“An attack of nerves?Your brother will be susceptible to drastic reactions to excitable situations, Mr. Holmes.His continued recovery depends on a quiet and stable environment. Rest and sleep are the best medicine he could have right now.”

It seemed a simple prescription.An entirely reasonable course of treatment. But neither of us realized as we watched the doctor leave the house, and we turned once again to our problematic charge, how difficult it would be to achieve. 

**

_ Mycroft: _

The doctor had ordered rest and sleep, so naturally, my brother was unable to find either. 

Sherlock’s fever stabilized, even dropping a degree point over the course of the next twenty-four hours, but his overall condition was such that I strongly felt that the Swiss physician’s assessment regarding a relapse must be wrong. At the very least, some other sickness had descended to take advantage of his weakened state.

Under Watson’s tender care, my brother had begun to regain some of the weight he had lost, with the good doctor gone, all that progress was undone. 

My brother was plagued by an inability to eat even the most bland fare, and what small amounts he could keep down seemed to cause such stomach distress that the retained nutrition hardly seemed worth the struggle to get it into him.

His spare frame, already under siege, was further tortured by joint pain that was so intense that he spent most of his time curled into a foetal ball flinching whenever touched. 

I attempted to use methods employed decades earlier, when my brother had been a colicky infant, to ease his suffering. I like to think that under my touch, he found some small relief.But I do not know.

Even Gladstone, who was never far from his beloved master during all his trials, seemed at a loss for how to give succor, opting to confine himself to the occasionally snuffle into an outstretched palm, and a whine of perfect empathy when Sherlock could not bite back the vocalization of his agony. 

The only activity that seemed to give my brother any comfort was smoking his pipe, which when he was feeling at all up to sitting up, became a permanent fixture in his mouth. Whilst neither Mrs. Hudson or myself believed that smoking like a veritable chimney could be at all healthful in the long run, in the short course it would have been cruel to deny him. 

But it was the sleeplessness that was the most haunting aspect of my brother’s suffering.

I spent many hours in his room, sitting vigil, watching as exhaustion heavy eyes dropped shut, only to pop open a few minutes later in response to some sharp bodily pain.Or, to see him finally drop into a coma-like stupor, only to be tormented by what must have been ghastly dreams, from which he started like a hunted deer, sometimes screaming for Watson. 

By the third day I demanded another visit from the doctor—Sherlock was in no condition to be dragged into the hospital itself—whose only suggestion was dosing Sherlock with morphia to enforce his rest.That gave a few hours of blessed oblivion, shattered when, as I sat next to him, I heard his breathing stutter and fail.

It was only through the most aggressive attempts at rousing, including physical measures which horrified me to have to employ, that he regained enough sensibility and stability in his breathing processes for me to be assured of his continued survival. 

I would not run that risk again, whatever his previous tolerance to any dosage of morphia might have been, his beleaguered body systems were too frangible to expose to the same peril again. 

The evening of the third day, I sat, every atom of my being wishing I could do something to ease my beloved brother’s affliction.I looked at him where he lay; huge brown eyes ringed by exhaustion induced bruising, curled in on himself in a state of perfect misery. 

He had been given a quiet, stable environment; bland food, a veritable fountain of fluids, and he was no better – in fact markedly worse.

In a flash of insight, I understood. 

Sherlock had thrown off the bounds of addiction to cocaine, to morphia, to all else that his high strung nature had caused him to turn in times of unrelenting stress or the bleakest periods of boredom.In the stead of those medicaments, he had, in these last weeks, found a replacement that overall had provided his salvation. 

But his new drug of choice had been removed from him, abruptly, through the vagaries of fate, and he was physically reacting from that sudden lack just as surely as he might have had his seven percent solution been abruptly cut off, instead of eased away gradually.

His complete love and utter devotion for Dr. Watson had replaced his need for chemical stimulants or depressives, the perfect communion they shared filling up all those empty, aching spaces that had required their artificial alleviation. 

Watson might have been convinced that Sherlock’s continued recovery was dependent on a fortnight spent where he was and a leisurely trip back to England taken in gentle stages. 

I no longer shared that opinion.The reality I saw vividly by the evidence of my eyes was that my brother could not possibly survive at all, if he was not restored to his beloved’s side with all haste. 

When Mrs. Hudson brought the thin broth that was all that Sherlock had been able to keep down, I looked her in the eye. 

“To hell with this, Mrs. Hudson!Pack up the house; we leave for England in the morning!”

It was a mark of her own sympathy and utter accord, that she immediately set out to make my suggestion a reality with her usual efficiency. 

Sherlock seemed oblivious to my announcement, his eyes squeezing shut against pain that had him shuddering where he lay in the middle of the large master bed, the very epitome of perfect wretchedness. 

I removed my jacket, slipped out of my shoes.I crawled into the bed next to my brother and gathered him into my arms as tenderly and carefully as I could. 

He moaned in protest at the inevitable jarring, groaned at the pain that contracted muscles and sinews mercilessly. 

“Hush, baby brother, hush.” I whispered softly into his ear, one hand stroking his back, as the other gathered his head and shoulders to my chest.“You’ve only to hold on one more night. On the morrow I will bring you back to your beloved.”

It seemed to me that the promise brought him more ease than anything any of us had done in the three days previous.He sighed deeply, and for the first time, seemed to be able to descend into something akin to a peaceful rest.

I kept vigil that long night, monitoring breathing, temperature. I hummed songs from our childhood; rubbed and soothed muscles that spasmed, and dried the stray tear that leaked out onto his cheek.

It was an exhausting experience that left me barely able to function the next day, but it was a sacred duty that I was proud to be able to perform for the most important person in my life, my beloved brother.

**


	27. "my soul thirstetth for thee..."

**Thanks to Piplover for her aiding and abetting of dialogue in this chapter!**

**Finality:**

**Chapter 27: “my soul thirsteth for thee…”**

_My soul thirsteth for thee,  
My flesh longeth for thee in a dry  
and thirsty land, where no water is._

_Holy Bible, Psalms 63:I_

 

L.A. Adolf

 

_Mycroft:_

We departed early the next day, comfortably situated in a smoking car that allowed my brother to take his ease, as well as indulge his beloved pipe in the spacious and well appointed lounge.  He puffed away at his pipe and cigars procured at the Leuk depot, finally revealing to me that smoking eased his pain considerably, illuminating his renewed enthusiasm for tobacco back at the chalet.

 Once we changed from the smaller to the larger gauge railroad at Geneva we were able to procure the use-- having wired ahead to my agents in the city--of a special train with a well stocked dining car which Mrs. Hudson made her own, and parlour car formerly outfitted by some pasha or another for members of his harem.  The latter included sleeping berths and a sitting area, as well a small dining area.  Whilst not quite as comfortable as the chalet, it more than suited our needs and we travelled in comparative luxury from Geneva to Dieppe, France.

Sherlock was ensconced in the largest of the berths with Gladstone ever at his side.  To our great relief, once we were underway, his condition of insomnia lapsed into quite its opposite number, and he made up for whatever sleep he had lost in the days previous by spending the trip back to the Channel largely unconscious.

When not, Mrs. Hudson plied him with hearty broths, soups and stews, which he was able, in the main, to keep down.  The journey, for all that he slept and ate his way through it, was still difficult for him.  He was not miraculously cured of all his complaints by our increasing proximity to Watson, he still suffered from a low grade fever, the joint pain persisted, and he was somewhat travel-sick from the motion of the train amongst other complaints, but any improvement in his former state was to be celebrated.

I sat watching him sleep, a scant hour before we would reach Dieppe, alternately grateful that two days hard travel was not resting worse with him than it was, and mourning the lines of pain and suffering that seemed to now permanently crease his face.

I remembered with a pang sitting thus when we were but children, and Sherlock had cried himself to sleep after some particularly cruel treatment by our father.  How even then he’d looked older than his years for the torment he was living through.

I had often been the only barrier that prevented our sire from exercising his full wrath on my brother.  It was strange to think that in some ways, our roles had never changed.  From that day to this I still seemed to be the only barrier standing sentinel between the battering of a cruel world against his sensitive soul.

I was grateful, in one way, that the torments of love had never laid me so low, and never would.  And in another, I could not help but find myself envious, that one could be so transported by the softer emotions, to risk their all to experience them.  My brother, seemingly the least romantic man on the face of the earth to those who did not know him well, had revealed himself possessed not only of a poet’s soul, but a lover’s great heart.

I was humbled. 

I reached out to smooth a lock of hair away from Sherlock’s forehead, sensing the persistent low grade fever with the sensitive pads of my fingers.  Lost in a dream he murmured softly in his slumber.

“Watson, I love you…”

I wanted, unaccountably, to sob, but instead I reminded myself that once Dieppe was reached, I needed to wire the good doctor and inform him of our coming.  If I knew Sherlock’s man, he would present himself at the docks in Newhaven to greet us.

I began to prepare to make that eventuality become fact.

 

**

_Clark:_

I was happy to be back in London, truth be told I had missed my family during the weeks in Switzerland but I had been proud to have been of service and did not begrudge the time I had spent aiding Mr. Mycroft, his brother and Doctor Watson.

I as yet had duty to discharge to Sherlock Holmes, I had promised him to keep a watch on Doctor Watson until such time as he could return to England himself.  It was a responsibility I bore happily.

So it was that I stayed with the good doctor at Cavendish place, in the bachelor quarters Mr. Sherlock had informed me Watson kept in the house for the use of friends and patients too ill to be released to their own devices, making myself useful.  I worked visits to my family and reporting to my superiors into odd hours, never once leaving Dr. Watson completely alone for any significant length of time.

The good doctor, having apparently exorcised the worst of his grief in our journey back to England had comported himself with steady nerves and great courage in the face of what must have been crushing grief.  The home that he’d shared with his wife was rife with reminders and memories, yet he kept to it, donning his widower’s wardrobe, observing the rituals as well as seeing to the practical business of a death in the family.

The funeral was now two days past, and I do not believe I had ever witnessed a sadder spectacle.  Watson’s in-laws had in his absence,  gone the full 50 pounds, hiring a hearse with four horses, two mourning coaches, pall bearers and feathermen. The funeral procession began at Cavendish Place and took a meandering path as so many did, as though the Morstans felt the need to trumpet their grief throughout entire city.

Through it all, the Doctor had put on a brave face, gracious and kind to all in the endless stream of patients and acquaintances that approached to offer their condolences; standing stoically at the grave side after all the others had left, watching as Miss Mary’s coffin was put into the ground.

The  Morstans had treated him shabbily.  I had witnessed more than one incident where the poor man was excoriated for not being in London at the time of his wife’s passing.  Watson withstood the accusations bravely, and without comment, although I could see the cost to his nerves and equilibrium.  

 He had been very withdrawn, these two days past the sad event, staying indoors and tending to the packing up of the house and its contents.  He was missing Mr. Sherlock I was sure, and still reeling from not only his sad bereavement, but the lack of support he was receiving from Miss Mary’s family.

I had taken to answering the door before he could.  I was determined that if the Morstans made an appearance at his door to continue their harangues, that I would turn them away.  They say in grief a person’s true nature emerges, if that is so, it is a wonder that such a fine lady as Miss Mary was ever raised by the pair who were her parents.

This evening, I opened the door to find Dr. Anstruther on the stoop.  He was good friend to Doctor Watson and the man who took over his practice in his absences. He had, of course, also conducted the post mortem on the late Mrs. Watson.

Escorting him into Doctor Watson’s office, adjacent his consulting room where the good doctor now spent most of his time, I set about making myself of use by putting on tea. By the time I returned with a tray, Dr. Watson and Dr. Anstruther were deep in conversation.

“…I can assure you, John, that she didn’t suffer.”  Anstruther was saying as I set the tray before them.  Anstruther paused, eyeing me, but Watson waved him on.

“You may say anything in front of Clark that you would say to me,” Watson assured, turning grateful eyes in my direction, and gesturing that I should stay.  I repaired to the far side of the room, making myself accessible yet creating a respectful space between myself and the two physicians.

“The hemorrhage appeared to have overtaken her in her sleep and was so sudden and catastrophic; I do not think she felt any pain.  Her aspect in death was peaceful and pleasant, she was found in her nightclothes by the maid, who at first thought she was merely deeply asleep.”

I watched Dr. Watson carefully for his reaction.  There was pain, but also a tangible sense of relief about him as he nodded solemnly.

“There was nothing that your presence would have changed, John.  I was at the services and heard the Morstans accosting you.  As you and I both know, surgical intervention depends on presentation of symptoms, and as Mary would have come to me, I can assure you, that she had none.  It was one of those cases where the ectopic gave none of the usual pregnancy precursors. Had you been here, beside her in the bed, chances are the outcome would have been identical.”

Some strain in Watson’s face and demeanor seemed to lift at that revelation. My own heart transformed at the news, I knew it to be a point upon which Dr. Watson still harbored doubts and guilt.

There was a rapping on the front door, and I hurried to answer it.  A messenger from the telegraph office stood outside.  I fumbled for some coins and accepted the message.

It was from Mr. Mycroft Holmes, addressed to Dr. Watson that much I could see from the visible part of the form. Though a horrible invasion of privacy, I could think of very few reasons for Mr. Mycroft to be wiring Dr. Watson that were good, so I unfolded the paper and read its contents.

Clearing my throat I folded it back up, and repaired back to the office, crossing to the desk and handing the telegram off to Watson without comment.

I then repaired to my former position on the far side of the room to await the explosion.

Casting his eyes over the communication, Doctor Watson shot to his feet.

“The bloody _FOOL_!” Watson spat, words dripping with frustration and anger.

He went instantly red in the face that Dr. Anstruther must have feared an apoplectic fit.  “Doctor?  John?!” he responded, alarmed.

“I’m sorry, Anstruther!  My patient. He seems to have decided to return to England  prematurely, in spite of my warnings not to rush a homeward passage.”

Anstruther relaxed as Watson did, leaning back in his chair as Watson resumed his.

 “Oh yes, they have a tendency to do that, don’t they?  As soon as we leave they become experts on their own health,” he commented in a soothing voice.

“This patient is a special case,” Watson began, sighing. Anstruther was certainly familiar with his colleague’s work with Mr. Holmes, yet Watson did not refer to his erstwhile patient by name. I wondered at this, but it was not my place to question. “He is the sibling of a very powerful man in government, and I fear that any harm to him may endanger us all.”

“Ohhh!  I understand.  This was the patient in Switzerland?” Anstruther responded, leaning forward.

“Yes, the one and the same. Perhaps I’m being too sharp.” Watson sighed, tapping his finger on the desk top.  “There is a chance that his brother may have been recalled for some emergency.  He would not entrust his brother’s care to another.”

“Would his condition be very compromised by this early return?”  Anstruther queried, interested in spite of himself.  In all likelihood the most exciting case he himself had seen in many a day was a child with croup, the details of Watson’s recent, and somewhat exotic adventure to the Continent would offer more than a measure of fascination.

“It may very well, I fear.  He was in a very delicate state when I left, although recovering steadily.  I had hoped for at least another fortnight of him regaining his strength before they attempted the return journey.”  Watson’s words seemed to be forced out between clenched jaws.

“Well, perhaps he has recovered faster than you had hoped?”  Anstruther offered.

I bent my head into my hand, knowing what the answer would be, then immediately looked up to witness my supposition being confirmed.

“Unlikely, Doctor.”  Watson cast a look at the telegram of such vehemence that it was a wonder that the paper did not spontaneously combust.  “It will earn me the further censure of my in-laws, to be sure. But I had best make ready to take the first train to Newhaven and meet their boat, they cross the Channel tomorrow.  With luck I should be able to arrive before they dock.  I cannot, in good conscience, fail to be in attendance should my patient require my services.”

“I shall be on my way, then John, to allow you to make preparations.  Never mind the Morstans, they are in the first pangs of grief, hopefully with the passage of a bit more time, they will understand the inevitability of the situation.  If I can be of any assistance in calming their fears, you have only to call on me.”

With profuse thanks, Watson saw Anstruther to the door.  When he returned his anger seemed only to have grown.

“If Holmes has survived the crossing, I think I shall most certainly murder him myself,” he announced darkly.

There was nothing to be said in reply to that, so I merely set about aiding the good doctor in planning tomorrow’s excursion to Newhaven.

 

_Watson:_

The vagaries of train travel being what they were, I arrived dockside in New Haven less than an hour before the ship carrying Holmes, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone was due to come in.

To Clark’s bemusement, I used that hour to pace up and down the quay, working myself into a heightened emotional state.

It should not have surprised me that Holmes would not listen to my medical advice, but Mycroft certainly had a great deal of explaining to do when the boat berthed.

I’d had overnight and a goodly part of this day to give my imagination over to all the consequences of someone in Holmes’s condition undertaking a cross Continent expedition, followed by a choppy Channel crossing.  I had managed to agitate myself into a state of high anxiety.

I watched the ship moor with clenched jaw and fists, my heart racing and stomach clenching, half expecting to see my dearest carried off the boat, insensible and on a litter.

Instead, he appeared on his brother’s arm, a blanket around thin shoulders, skin grey and noticeably thinner than when last I’d seen him. He moved in that careful way that bespoke pain in the joints and muscles, his gait unsteady and slow.  Beside him, Mycroft looked careworn and tired, Mrs. Hudson, bringing up the rear with Gladstone was as equally exhausted.

Whatever anger I may have harbored melted completely away in a rush of care and concern.  I bounded over to the gangway as they descended it, catching Holmes in my arms as he approached, drawing the blanket more tightly around him.

 “Holmes! I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” I exclaimed with more indulgence than anger.

The brown eyes, more hollow and sunken than I remembered, looked at me with open need.  

“No, mother hen, you cannot. Never again.”  He voiced the thought with utter seriousness and conviction.

There was no answer to that but to put my arms around him and embrace him warmly.  At the same time I was deeply alarmed at how much slighter he’d grown in such a short time, and I could detect the warmth of fever about him.

"What the hell happened?  I've barely been gone a week!"  I glared at Mycroft then turned my attention back to Holmes, fussing over him in spite of my earlier intention to throttle him. 

Mycroft heaved a gusty sigh.  “He is yours, Doctor. Take him. Please.”

In very short order I learned that Mycroft, with his usual attention to detail, had booked us into the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne, and hailing a carriage, we repaired to that location.

On the drive, Holmes leaned against me heavily, seeming to doze as  Gladstone  sat at my feet, looking up at me in entreatingly, as though requesting me to make all well again with his master.  Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had something of the same look, and I wondered once again what had occurred after I had left Leuk.

First we must reach the hotel, and check in, then I would have the answers to the questions that burned in my heart.

**

 

“What happened, Mycroft?  He was fine when I left!”  I settled a blanket over my dearest Holmes, who was stretched out on the settee in our suite’s sitting room, seeming to sulk.  Around him at various points in the room sat Mycroft,   Mrs. Hudson and Clark. 

"Yes, well, Doctor.  About that.  It appears my brother has not lost his touch for the dramatic.  He thought it necessary to play before you left.  Specifically with your thermometer.”

"He. What?"  I cried, not quite following due to my distraction with Holmes’s condition.  I perched on the edge of the settee, taking his pulse.

"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Hudson chimed in, shooting a dirty look at Holmes.  "Found him on the train trying to do the same thing.  Dipping it in his water before placing it in his mouth.”

“WHAT?”  I exclaimed, my mouth dropping open in spite of itself.

"He did not wish you to worry, and so decided fakery was the better part of valor.  He collapsed shortly after you left, though the doctors assured me it was not a relapse."  Mycroft continued at a measured pace.

"Well," Clarky muttered, "That explains his sudden thirst for ice water."

I remembered what had seemed an insignificant detail at the time, encountering Clark in the hallway of the chalet bearing a tray with a carafe of chilled water upon it.  Normally Holmes had to be coaxed to drink enough fluids to keep himself hydrated, but Clarky had reported in that moment that Holmes had specifically requested the water and in quantity.  On my way to the telegraph office and otherwise distracted, the thought of foul play had never entered my thoughts.

“Strenuous violin playing!  My ass!”  I cursed.

"Watson! Your language, there is a lady present!" Holmes muttered, pulling his wrist from my by now rather too firm grip.

“Bugger all, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson snarled.  I had never, in all our years of association heard Mrs. Hudson use such language! The provocation must have been extreme.

“Mrs. Hudson!”  Holmes rejoined, his voice regaining some of its normal depth and timber—no doubt for dramatic effect.  It had been quite weak only a moment before.

"Don’t ‘Mrs. Hudson’ me, Mr. Holmes.  It wasn't only your brother who had to help clean you up after you collapsed."

“Moving on!”  Holmes announced, fixing our landlady with one of his patented death glares.

 Mrs. Hudson tossed her head and turned her gaze in an opposing direction.

"As you can see, Doctor, I thought  it prudent to get him back to your side as quickly as possible, despite your wishes for an extended recuperation.”  Mycroft concluded.

_No doubt to circumvent Holmes being strangled where he lay,_ I mused to myself but did not dare vocalize the thought.  Holmes, it seemed, had not lost his innate ability to drive fellow lodgers to distraction.

"I would ask your forgiveness, but in this case I fear it might be more expedient to beg pardon.” Mycroft continued loftily, ignoring an icy gaze from his brother’s direction.

I turned a stern eye on Holmes, who quit glaring at his brother long enough to meet my eyes. 

“I’m doing fine, Watson.  It was a slight turn after you left. That is all.”

“Oh, is that what it was?”  I replied mildly, turning my gaze to fix upon Mycroft.  “What were his symptoms?”

“Minor complaints!”  Holmes interjected quickly.

“A fever of 101 degrees Fahrenheit.”  Holmes’s brother announced.

“Stomach cramps, vomiting.  Joint pain.”  Mrs. Hudson elaborated.

“An inability to sleep.  Nightmares once sleep finally gained.” Mycroft concluded.

“A slight turn, indeed!”  I commented acidly, brushing a hand across Holmes’s forehead.  I could not be sure without the thermometer, but he _was_ still running a fever, though much less than 101o  Fahrenheit.

"Oh, and he passed out cold at one point, though he was very strident that it was just a momentary lapse."  Mrs. Hudson interposed.

“The train lurched!” Holmes defended hotly.

“Yes, and you with it!”  Mrs. Hudson replied sourly.

As amusing as this exchange was, it was well past time that I examined Holmes at greater length.  I pulled my stethoscope from my jacket pocket and placed it about my neck.

“If you could all excuse us for a moment, I need to do an examination and have a few words with our patient.” 

I stood and extended a hand to Holmes, who reluctantly gave me his. He was weak enough that he did indeed need the assistance to stand, much to his vexation.

“I will escort Mrs. Hudson to her suite, then Clarky and I will repair to ours. If you would be so good as to inform me of your findings, Doctor, I would be most grateful.”  Mycroft stood stiffly, fixing his brother with a fond, yet exasperated look.

“Behave yourself, Sherlock, and be honest with your doctor, for a change!”

Our companions filed out of the suite, even as I pulled Holmes into the bedroom adjacent the sitting room.

I gently urged him to sit on the edge of the bed, and helped him remove shoes, jacket and shirt.

"Right then.  Let me take a look and see where we stand.”  I announced.

Holmes bent his head, but cast his gaze up through his eyelashes,  a look that invariably reduced me to a quivering mess, but I fortified myself against its deadly effect.

"Watson, I'm sorry.  It was for your own good!"  Holmes said most reasonably.

"MY own good?  "How is abusing YOUR health ever going to be for **my** own good..?"

"You had- you had other considerations, old boy.  You did not need to be worrying excessively over me." 

"I worry excessively over you no matter what--or where we might be! In the same room or halfway across the world from each other!” I proclaimed hotly, it was nothing less than the truth.

"I did not wish you to feel beholden to me when such - pressing matters were at hand." Holmes continued, contritely.

"Beholden implies an unwanted obligation.  Holmes I _love _you!  More than _anything_!” 

I marveled at the conviction I felt in saying those words, the understanding that was forming even as I contemplated it. Whatever else had happened, if Mary had lived and delivered a healthy child, it was Holmes who held the whole of my heart.  I could be a father, if not a husband and be with Holmes--withstood any scandal that would have resulted.  I knew it now.  There no longer remained any doubt in my mind.

Something in my tone communicated the depth of that certitude to Holmes, his brown eyes grew wide, half hopeful, half afraid.

"We had to come. I could not have continued to live without you Watson." He admitted, his voice low, helpless, almost ashamed.

"Holmes... please, don't be melodramatic. I know you missed me as desperately as I missed you, but.... You are **_serious_**, aren't you?!"  The impact of the truth of what he was saying hit me squarely in my solar plexus. The magnitude of the revelation staggered me.

"I knew as much before you ever left." He admitted quietly, alarmingly.

“Why didn’t you _tell _me? I would never have _left_, Holmes!  _No_ duty, _no_ obligation, not even to Mary’s memory, would ever compel me to put your health--your _life_ at any kind of risk!” 

I was by turns chilled, appalled and terrified.  I wondered at my ability to remain standing.

"I do not wish to be a burden to you, Watson.  Not now.  I am.. sorry... for my weakness."

 Holmes who had always prided himself on his strength, on his self sufficiency, had just  made the ultimate confession of vulnerability. How incredibly significant this was!

"Holmes... Don't be an idiot. Have I not told you that you never are and never can be a burden to me?"

"Yes," Holmes whispered, lowering his head.  "But that was before."

"That was always_. And forever_" I breathed, taking his face in both of my hands and tilting his head up until his eyes met mine squarely.  "And if you are weak then so am I.  I've been hopeless without you as well.  Oh, my darling!”

I lowered my head and took his mouth in mine hungrily, desperate to claim, eager to soothe. I wanted to immerse myself in him, chase out every last demon of doubt, conquer once and for all the turn of mind and hurt of soul that made him so susceptible to such fathomless insecurity.

It would take more than a kiss to accomplish such a miracle, but I did not mind.  I would dedicate the remainder of my life to making it a reality.

**

When we broke for air, sometime later, I set about performing the examination that our mutual confessions had arrested.  Pressing Holmes back onto the bed, I checked his heart, once again took his pulse, listened to his lungs.  I quizzed him about the state of his pains, took his temperature with a thermometer retrieved directly from my Gladstone bag.

 His vital signs were basically sound.  His fever _was_ problematic, but something I was convinced that we could conquer.  Now that I had him back, I could once again lavish care upon him.

I drew a bath for him, knowing that a long soak in hot water would work wonders for the muscles and joints that still pained him, soothe overwrought nerves and ease him toward the restful sleep his body craved.  I settled him into it, allowing him some long moments for the rising steam and warmth to penetrate into his bones.

Then on a sudden, powerful impulse, I stripped out of my own clothing. Urging him somewhat forward in the bathtub, I slipped in behind him, pulling his slight form back against my chest.

He was, at first, bashful and tentative, uncertain of this new level of intimacy between us.  I murmured to him encouragingly, keeping my touches carefully neutral, beginning again the ritual of bathing we had explored in the chalet in Leuk.

 In time he relaxed against me fully, his body communicating to me a level of trust that I had once despaired of ever reaching with him.  We entangled ourselves, naked, as we had once before while clothed. 

We kissed, we explored each other, chastely inquisitive this first magical time, gaining comfort and familiarity with each other’s touch, marking in our memories those places we would come back to explore more fully and sensually another day.

I felt shy and exposed myself, naked literally and figuratively before the man I loved with all my heart and soul.  Someday soon, I would worship him with my body as well.

We lingered, until the water grew cool, and I worried that my beloved would catch a chill, in spite of the warmth of the summer evening.  We stood, toweling each other off tenderly.  I bundled Holmes back into the bedroom, pulled a nightshirt from his luggage and settled him in the bed.

I curled around him, protective, willing the health and vitality of my body into his own.  He fell into a deep sleep, unaided by the drugs with which I had initially thought to ease his aches and pains.

I spent at least an hour, just lying next to him, watching his breath rise and fall in his chest, making sure that his sleep was deep and restful, and that no night terror would invade his peace.

Then I rose and dressed.  I let Gladstone in from the sitting room where he had slumbered beside the fireplace, urging him up onto the bed and to Holmes’s side.  Hopefully the proximity of the noble beast would help keep Holmes comforted and quiet until I could return. 

I needed to report to Mycroft the fact that he had done the very best thing he could have in restoring my beloved to me and I to him. 

There were decisions to be made, for the immediate future and beyond.

First I must extract myself from the false life I had created at Cavendish Place.  Perhaps sell the practice, the allure of which paled when compared to the prospect of taking on the care of one particular private patient.

 A return to Baker Street was inevitable, yet Holmes could not resume his place there until I could  move in as well, the valiant Mrs. Hudson having done more than her duty in her care of Holmes in Switzerland and on the journey back to England.

Holmes was mine now, and I his. We must begin to forge our life together.

 

**

 

 

 

 

 

 


	28. "between the taking of a toast and tea..."

_Comes a time in the writing of something long and angsty that an author hits the wall and can’t find a way either around it or up and over it. I hit that with Finality. Fortunately Piplover my buddy, brainstorming partner and “angst fairy godmother” was there to pick up the dropped reins.  Guest chapter ahoy! L.A.A/enkiduts_

**Finality:**

**Chapter 28: “between the taking of a toast and tea”**

 

Kelly Frankenfield

 

_Time for you and time for me,  
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
And for a hundred visions and revisions,  
Before the taking of a toast and tea._

_TS Elliot, Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock _ __

 

 

_Watson:_

 

Although it was not particularly cold outside, the fire in Mycroft’s room was crackling merrily, the portly man sat before the hearth with a drink in hand and some of the color much restored to his face.

He is sleeping,” I said, hastening to assure the man.

I moved to sit in the chair opposite him and had a fleeting moment of déjà vu, memories of past days sitting in this exact position with his brother prompting a weary smile to my lips. 

“He’s not as bad as I had feared, though he will need to be continually monitored to make sure the fever remains down.”

I paused at Mycroft’s soft exhale of relief, my smile growing at the rueful expression on his face. It felt strange, to flex those muscles once more.  There had been little enough to smile at lately, but now, perhaps, things could begin to turn.  I hoped so, anyway.

“You did the right thing,” I said softly as the silence lengthened.

“I had hoped so,” Mycroft murmured, hiding his concern behind a sip of his brandy.  “Forgive me, Doctor, where has my mind gone? Would you care for a brandy?” he asked, as though just then realizing that he should make an attempt at the social niceties our society demanded.

“No, thank you. Truly, Mycroft,” I continued, and the use of his first name brought his head up, his weary eyes meeting mine. 

“Had he stayed behind as I had recommended, I do not like to think of what his condition would be. It certainly would not be as stable as it is now. You made the correct decision. Holmes needs me. And I need him,” I added softly. “I know that now, if I know nothing else. I need him, and always will.”

He understood what I had not said, as I knew he would. Understood that I was answering the question he had put to me that day I received the telegram and had thought myself lost and adrift. When I had admitted to him that I did not know what I would have done, the words were true.  At the time. 

But if there was one thing I had learned in my life, through war and misery and hardship, it was that a moment’s truth was yet another’s lie.

As my beloved had taught me, what we see is not always what we observe. I had been standing outside of myself on that day, uncertain, frightened, and horrified by all the implications of what could have been.  But I could see now, looking back, that what I had thought was the answer in my heart had only been the deep breath before diving into unknown waters. 

We can never truly anticipate what awaits us beneath the dark waves of the ocean, just as we can never truly fathom the future or the paths we may walk. I knew now, as I had not then, that wherever my path may take me- wherever it may have taken me - Sherlock Holmes would always be there beside me.

The broad shoulders seemed to relax, and for once the stately form of Mycroft Holmes appeared every one of his years as the weight of my words sank in.

“When was the last time you slept? Or had a decent meal?” I asked, though I doubted he had neglected himself as much as his brother often did.

“Oh, I am fully intending to have a lie down as soon as we finish our business. One might suggest the same to you, Doctor, if you’ll forgive my saying so. I know the week has not been an easy one.”

I looked down to my lap, where my hands were clasped.

“No, it has not,” I agreed. “Things have been… complicated. And I have to admit… I am thankful that Holmes was not here to witness some of it.”

“As am I,” Mycroft sighed, finishing his drink with one long swallow.  “Sherlock does not handle grief well, as you may have noticed.”

I had to smile at the wry tone to Mycroft’s voice, thinking back to all the many times my Holmes had forced himself to deal with emotions he thought messy and inconvenient. It had never been easy for him, and his reactions to my marriage (I winced internally at the fleeting thought) and subsequent past few months had only proven that.

“I see you agree,” Mycroft snorted, and then, as a knock at the door sounded, pushed his large frame from the chair to stand, running a hand over his face wearily. “Come, Doctor. We have many things to decide, and I have found that such decisions are best made over a full stomach.  I ordered supper a bit ago and I believe that is it.”

The dinner, much more than I normally would have eaten, especially lately when all food tasted off in my mouth and my stomach did not welcome sustenance, was nonetheless superb. I would expect nothing less from a meal procured by the elder Holmes.

Despite his earlier assertion, we spoke of very little over the meal, instead enjoying the repast and each other’s company. Although I had never been close to Holmes’ brother, the past few months had bonded us in our care for the recalcitrant man, and his treatment of me, despite all my many flaws, had been more than I could have hoped for.

“Tell me, Doctor, what is on your mind,” Mycroft finally prompted when the silence had stretched on once more.

“I am concerned about Holmes,” I began, leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs at the ankle. The past week was starting to take its toll, and I had to smother a yawn as the warmth of the flame soothed away some of the aches that often accompany grief. The bath previous had done more than just reassert my love and care for Sherlock. It had eased us both in a time when our bodies were not as strong as we might wish them to be, and the ache which filled both my beloved and myself had been at least somewhat abated.

“As am I, John,” Mycroft sighed, and the use of my first name was enough of a shock to raise my head. Mycroft smiled gently at me, the compassion that was so seldom seen on the stern face nearly staggering in its intensity. “I fear my brother never could choose the easy road.  And you, I fear, are just as bad,” he grumbled.

I laughed, another thing I had done little of lately.

“Yes, there is that. I fear that if left on his own he would do himself a – how shall I put it? A great disservice.”

Mycroft barked out a laugh, once more back to his usual, implacable self.

 “I think we both know that is beyond an understatement, Doctor. But you are correct. He cannot stay on his own, not when he is still so very fragile.  And I would not inflict his tempestuous mood on the good Mrs. Hudson again so soon. The poor woman has done far more than should be asked of any landlady. No, I fear he cannot return to Baker Street.”

“And I very much do not wish him at Cavendish Place,” I whispered, closing my eyes as memories assailed me once more. “It – I love Sherlock with all that I am, and I fear that seeing the house which he abhorred will only bring back memories best left buried. Lord knows, I do not know how I could stay there without Clarky. The place is filled with ghosts, and I – I would very much like to put them behind me.”

I buried my face in my hands as I tried to regain control of myself.  Grief, more of an echo now than the sharp, twisting pain it had been, washed over me, and I breathed deeply for several moments. It may have been unmanly, but Mycroft had seen me in far worse straights.

“I’m sorry, John,” the larger man whispered, and a hand was placed gently on my arm. “I know I have been harsh with you, and for that you have my deepest apologies. You know my reasons, so I will not insult you and repeat them. But I am sorry.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, wiping my eyes and taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly.  “This, however, is another reason I do not wish Sherlock with me. Taking care of Mary’s possessions will not be an easy task, and I do not want him to see me so weak. Oh, I know he will understand,” I quickly added, cutting off whatever remark Mycroft was about to make. “But this one burden I must take care of alone.”

“I understand,” was all the other man said. There was another long moment of silence, in which I gathered my dignity and shook off the last remnants of my momentary lapse.  There was still much to be decided, and with both of us so weary, retiring early to bed was sounding more and more advisable. 

“Now, Doctor,” Mycroft conditioned, businesslike. “We have established that my brother at Baker Street would be an unmitigated disaster, and to have him at Cavendish Place is out of the question. That leaves with us few options. The most practical solution is to have him come stay with me at Pall Mall until such time as he will be able to resume his own domicile. This will also allow you easier access to him, and give you a reason to bypass spending your nights alone.”

As usual, when a Holmes set his mind to a matter, the most logical and practical solution would be had. I smiled at the suggestion and nodded my agreement.

“Yes, that is a sound solution. I think that will work wonderfully. I do not know how long it will take me to finish packing up, but that would ensure that Holmes is both supervised and out of danger from himself.”

“Excellent. Next order of business,” Mycroft agreed, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Your practice. Do you intend to re-establish it at Baker Street? I know this is a bit premature, but a little thought now might save several hours of trouble later. Should you decide to sell your current one, I have a cousin who might be interested. As Sherlock has doubtless told you, art runs in our blood. It seems to have bypassed cousin Reginald, however, and he is one of the most imminently practical, levelheaded men I know. Sherlock is certain he shares familial characteristics with the milk man, but we do not speak of such things,” Mycroft added with a sly smile.

He was teasing me, and I found myself laughing helplessly, covering my eyes with a hand as the image of the Holmes clan filled my mind with all sorts of odd pictures. Little old women with odd creatures for pets and small boys with a penchant for causing trouble were the mildest of the images.

“Do give the matter some thought, Doctor. I believe that is all I have to say for now, and unless there is anything more pressing, I think a good long sleep is in order for the both of us.” He smiled again, that gentle smile that seemed so foreign on his usual stoic façade. “Go, take care of my brother. And get some rest. I have a feeling we shall all need it as Sherlock begins to recover again.”

“Good night, Mycroft,” I said in agreement, standing and taking his large hand between both of mine. “Get some rest. You look nearly done in yourself.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed with a rather theatrical sigh. Art in the blood indeed!  “My brother always has been a handful!”

We finished our good nights and went to our separate rooms. I had left the fire burning merrily in the fireplace, and I could see by its faint light Gladstone curled up next to Holmes’s blanket covered body. 

Quietly I removed my shoes and socks, waistcoat and shirt. I hesitated only a moment before removing my trousers as well, leaving my smallclothes in place as I made my way over to the bed. For a moment I gazed fondly down at the scene, my beloved curled up like a child, Gladstone tucked firmly under one arm. I suppressed the now familiar ache of _what if_ that rose up and concentrated on the moment at hand. I had Holmes. That was more than enough.

“Watson, you need to shave,” Holmes mumbled, rubbing his face against the dog’s fur. 

I had to smother a chuckle with my hand as the sleepy murmur continued. 

“When did you become so stout?” At this, Holmes’ pressed the dog a bit closer, and a horrible sound erupted from the beast. I was nearly gasping for breath in my merriment as Holmes’ nose twitched.  “Watson, what _have_ you been eating?”

I could not help myself, and sat on the bed, overcome with laughter to the point that tears gathered in my eyes. 

Oh, yes, I thought to myself as I eased my way under the blankets and wrapped myself around my beloved, twining our fingers together so they both rested on Gladstone’s stomach. 

Holmes was all I would ever need in this life.

 

** 


	29. "the next way home..."

**Finality: **

**Chapter 29: “the next way home…”**

L.A. Adolf

_The road to resolution lies by doubt:  
The next way homes’s the farthest way about._

_Francis Quarles, Emblems (1635) IV, 2, Epigram_

 

_Watson:_

As it turned out we spent a further two days at the Grand in Eastbourne before returning to London. 

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson certainly needed the opportunity to recover from their rather strenuous turn at care giving for my dearest Holmes; Sherlock benefitted from the chance to recover his energy a bit more before facing public transportation once more; and I relished the opportunity to be away from London if only briefly and the oppressive duty of closing up the house at Cavendish Place.

Holmes slept soundly that first night  in my arms, awakening the morning after our arrival, his color as near restored as I’d seen it to date, his fever down and uncharacteristically ravenous for a “good English breakfast”.

It was all I could do to keep him abed and eating from a tray. 

“I’m perfectly fit, Watson!  Any lingering indisposition yesterday was simply the result of mal de mer!  The infernal Channel is always rough”

I slathered his toast with butter and jam and smiled at him sunnily.  “And you will be that much more fit for another day’s rest.  If you behave yourself, perhaps we can see if you are up to a bit of a walk on the beach tomorrow before we depart for London?”

“I always behave myself, Watson!”  Holmes sniffed. 

I guffawed into the sleeve of my shirt.  

“Good!  Eat up!  Then, perhaps you will condescend to play the Stradivarius for me after?  Clarky is excellent, but I have very much missed _your_ playing, dear boy.”

Holmes’s eyes went large and soft, any argument he might have wished to pursue forgotten in his happiness to be presented with the simple request.  “Condescend, Watson? It would be my greatest pleasure!”  He said warmly.

I watched him eat-- to see my dearest with an appetite was a pleasant change from the eternal struggle to keep enough nutrition in him to keep body and soul within a handshake’s distance from each other. 

After the dishes were cleared away and he’d seen to his morning toilet, I brought the violin case to his bedside.

He played beautifully when he put his mind to it, and today he reached new heights in his artistry with the instrument.  Touchingly, he played all my favorites, even those I knew he did not particularly enjoy himself.

It was a delightful morning.  When he tired of playing –for his stamina would take some time yet to recover – I read the London papers to him, and updated him on happenings back home.  I extended to him the greetings and well wishes that Lestrade had bade me give him when I had last seen the Inspector at Mary’s funeral. 

I avoided all other reference to that event, and to circumstances surrounding it.  Holmes did not press the issue after an initial comment, expressing regret that he could not have been beside me to offer moral support and to pay Mary his last respects.

I could not tell him how grateful I was that he had not been there, as I had discussed with Mycroft the night before.  There was one thing I could tell him, that might offer a small peace of mind.

“She had _not_ read the letter we wrote her, Holmes,” I offered quietly, my only response to his expressed regret.  “It was on the salver in the foyer when I returned to Cavendish Place.  It had not been opened.” 

It was true, I presumed upon seeing the missive that it had arrived by late post, and Mary had simply not seen it before retiring for the evening.  For a letter to take a week or more arriving from the Continent was not unusual, was in fact more the norm than the exception. 

I watched Holmes carefully for reaction, and was relieved to see that the shadow that flicked briefly across his features dispelled itself quickly and completely, and was not merely dissembled into oblivion.

“She left this life never doubting your love.  I am grateful, Watson,” he said very quietly, reaching out to cover my hand with his own.

I nodded, heart too full to speak, deeply touched at his words and gesture. I too was grateful for Fate’s beneficence.  “I destroyed the letter.” I finally admitted come minutes of sympathetic silence later.

Holmes nodded sagely.  “That was for the best.” 

His expression changed after a moment, assuming that particular look he had   when he wanted something.  I braced myself to argue down behavior more fitting to a rabid bunny than a convalescent, and was quite disarmed when he spoke.

“I find myself quite peckish again, Watson.  Might I convince you to allow me enjoy luncheon in the hotel dining room?  With you as my companion of course?  You did not partake of breakfast yourself, old boy.  That simply will not do.”  He admonished with a completely straight face.

I smiled ruefully.  In truth I had not had more than a cup of coffee for breakfast, still rather full from the late repast with Mycroft the night before.  I should have expected that Holmes would notice my own abstinence even as I urged him to eat more.

“We must get you acclimated to society—and it to you -- once more, old cock, I think that would be an excellent idea.  Perhaps even a post prandial turn about the hotel grounds, if you are up to it afterward?”  I acquiesced.

I wanted Holmes fed, happy and content before Mycroft and I broke the news to him later this afternoon,  that he would not be returning directly to Baker Street. What his reaction to that information would be, I could not begin to conjecture.  If his brother and I were successful in presenting a logical case to him, hopefully he would accept the situation without protest.

I suddenly felt the need to be fortified for a possible scene if that was not the case. Lunch seemed a capital idea.

We left the suite, arm in arm, sometime later, Holmes leaning companionably on my arm.

“I must tell you!”  Holmes chatted, as we made our way downstairs and to the dining room. “I had the strangest dream last night, Watson!  You had grown quite hirsute and stout, old fellow!  And we must be careful of what you eat…”

**

After a very satisfying midday repast, Holmes and I retrieved Gladstone from our suite and ambled about the hotel grounds. The sea air was invigorating, a light breeze blew that brought up color in Holmes’s wan cheeks, and Gladstone was beside himself that Holmes was, after so long, along for the constitutional.

I found myself relaxing as I had not been able for months, certainly since long before the news had come to me that Holmes had taken off for the continent in pursuit of Moriarty---and quite possibly, long before that.  In some respects I had not felt this much at peace with myself since before my marriage.

I should feel badly about that, but I could not.  Past events could not be changed, decisions made in what seemed the best interests of all at the time, could not be altered or undone.  I could only take solace in the fact that I had always endeavored to do the right thing at the right moment, even if disastrous consequences resulted---they could not be foreseen. I was coming close to being able to forgive myself for that.

I endeavored to be grateful that fate had given me a second chance at my heart’s true desire; that Holmes was at last on the road to what I hoped would be a complete recovery, and that we could begin to move forward to what must be a far better future.

“I once said that your gift for silence made you an invaluable companion, Watson. I was wrong.  I find myself quite adrift when you are this quiet and thoughtful.  Is there not something I can do to cheer you and lift your burden for a few moments?”  Holmes came to a stop beside me, his arm looped through mine assuring my own halt.  He looked up me with such honest sincerity, my heart expanded in my chest with the joy of it.

How I loved this man.  How incomprehensible and unendurable life without him now seemed. “You do Holmes!  By the very fact that you are here beside me, that we can walk arm and arm and enjoy the sea air together. You’ve no idea how grateful I am for that simple fact.”  I replied gently, covering his hand where it lay on my arm.

He gave me one of his smiles –one of that very rare species that lit up his entire face, and crinkled the corners of his eyes with merriment.  I was so charmed by the spontaneous reaction that I found myself vowing to do whatever it took to ensure that its number increased exponentially.  I beamed back at him, quite unselfconsciously.

“We’d best get you back to the room,” I said after a moment. “I cannot have you overdoing and overtiring yourself.”

If I expected an argument, I did not get one. Instead, Holmes clucked at Gladstone, urging him forward, and tugging on my arm, he led the way back into the hotel.

**

_Mycroft:_

I arranged to have myself let into my brother and Watson’s suite, and was in the sitting room waiting for them when they returned from their post luncheon walk.

It was exceedingly heartening to watch them enter the rooms, my brother, if not quite restored to the bloom of health, looking markedly better than he had for well over a week, and Watson appearing for once, without the shadow of his bereavement stamped on his every feature and implicit in is every movement.  He might be dressed in the garb of a widower, but walking into the rooms this day; he had the aspect of a bridegroom.

“Brother!” Sherlock exclaimed, raising an eyebrow in my direction.  “What have I done now to merit your presence?  I’ve been on my best behavior and in the company of Doctor Watson this entire day. He can vouch for my _bona fides_!”

“Can I not drop by to inquire after your health?  Which up to now has been very much my concern and province?”  I rejoined.

“As you can see, I’m in the veritable bloom of health! No! None of your snickering, Mycroft!”  Sherlock chastised, bending to allow Gladstone off his leash, then breaking his gaze with me to watch the beast lumber to the fireplace hearth.  “I am feeling much better today, and can see plain on your face that you have something else on your mind.”

The calm brown gaze swung back to me, with so much of its usual perceptiveness restored, that I was vastly heartened.

“I do have a point of concern, that I wish to bring up to you, Sherlock, and which we both need to discuss with Doctor Watson.”  I sighed, resigned to being bested—secretly happy about it in point of fact.  “As pleasant as this seaside interlude is proving to be, we need to speak of our return to London.  Specifically, about your expectations of returning to Baker Street.”

"Of course I shall return to Baker Street, it is my home." My brother responded, confused.  He arranged himself on the settee, pulling Watson down next to him.

“I’m afraid that is out of the question, my dear.  You will instead be staying with me in my apartments at Pall Mall.  I can send for any of your belongings that you will require once we arrive, but you will not be staying on at 221B in the immediate future.”

"What do you mean I can't go back?"  My brother objected, looking at me as if I were one of his chemical experiments gone horribly wrong.  “Have I so abused Mrs. Hudson’s patience that she is throwing me out into the street?”

“No! Holmes!”  Watson interjected.  “Nothing of that sort at all.  Baker Street remains your home, and I hope soon to be mine again.  But your health is such that you cannot yet be left on your own, and my business in settling the estate is such that I cannot yet move back to be with you.”

“Can I not stay with you at Cavendish Place?  You have the bachelor quarters that Clarky has been occupying, I am sure he would be happy to be released to return to his family…” 

I watched as Watson laid a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the expression on his face one of infinite patience and indulgence.  “The house is - very chaotic. I would not feel comfortable with you there in so much activity and upset. You need to rest, not be trying your nerves even more.  Trust me," Watson added softly.  "I will not be staying the nights there."

“You won’t?”  My brother replied, bemused.

"No. During the day, whilst I see to closing the house you will be with Mycroft and his staff, recuperating. But I'll be staying with you in the evenings. You're not at all well, you know."

“No, not at all,” My brother admitted agreeably.  “I have a great need for my personal physician!”

I stifled a smile. From the look on his face and the capitulation contained in his words, I could perceive that my brother had discerned the possibilities to be had in the arrangement.  I cleared my throat, as much as I hated to interrupt the adoring look that Sherlock was shining at his dearest doctor, I needed to be sure that we were all on the same page.

“So, it is settled. We make for Pall Mall once we reach London. You stay with me, Watson spends his evenings with you there. Clarky returns to his family and Mrs. Hudson is allowed to regain her composure and nerves before the pair of you move back in to her lodgings?”

Sherlock did not respond verbally, but gestured his agreement elaborately, the movement of his hand transforming into a wave of dismissal halfway through his performance of it.

“Oh, my Dear Watson, I fear I feel a bit faint." My brother prevaricated baldly.

"You are a bit flushed, Holmes. Perhaps you should lie down for a while?”  Watson replied. It was apparent from his tone of voice and the look on his face that he recognized my brother’s words for the sham they were.

“And I am myself, still quite done in. I shall take my leave of you both.” I announced, knowing full well that neither was paying me the least bit of attention any longer. I rose and moved to the door, letting myself out and closing the door, pretending not to see the embrace the pair of them shared unselfconsciously, before I had completed my retreat.

I stood in the hallway for a moment, shaking my head and chuckling. Then I returned to my room, for a much needed nap.

_Youth and high spirits! _I thought happily. “God bless them both!”

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

John Hamish Watson was in possession of lips that were certainly designed for sin. 

As my brother retreated from the room, I claimed that mouth with my own.

We were soon stumbling from the sitting room, into the bedroom, entwined in each other’s arms, falling onto the bed with joyful abandon. 

I allowed my hands to drift over Watson’s body, skimming from shoulder to hip, making re-acquaintance with familiar areas, exploring tentatively and abashedly those that still remained tantalizingly if provocatively unfamiliar.  Watson’s actions mirrored my own, and I found myself transported by new and delightful sensations as we mutually fondled and gently petted each other, exchanged soul-deep kisses. 

Without pressure, without hurry, we discovered which movements and touches brought each other the greatest pleasure and bestowed the most profound relaxation. Quite without my realizing it, my hands stilled, as Watson took command, transforming our investigations into the boundaries of pleasure, into a full body massage.

I was, after but a few moments, limp as a dishrag, and being drawn into the depths of sleep, yet I fought off the somnolence, rousing myself to return Watson’s ministrations. Very soon, our mutual relaxation was complete and we curled into each other’s arms, descending together to drink of Lethe’s cup.

It was some hours later that I roused from slumber, and with utmost care, slipped out of Watson’s arms and from the bed.

I gained the sitting room, rang for the porter, drawing a sheet of hotel stationary from the desk and jotting out a few sentences.

When the porter arrived, I slipped him a sovereign for himself and handed him the sheet covered with the handwritten text of several telegrams that I desired he send.

Had I been returning to Baker Street, I would have arranged to have them sent from there. Since I would not be returning to my home for the foreseeable future, a circumstance I was not overjoyed about but could do little to change, I must act now.

The porter returned with proof of transmission, which I destroyed. Then I returned to the bedroom, slipping again into the bed and Watson’s arms.

Only then did he rouse.

“Holmes?” He queried, adorable in his sleepy state.

“Sorry, old boy, had to use the facility. I’m back now.” I settled myself against his chest, listening to his stalwart heart beating below my ear.

“You…all right?” He persisted, brows drawing together over eyes that never quite opened.

“Perfectly!” I soothed, reaching out to smooth the creases on his forehead.

“No bathing without me…” he murmured.

I chuckled softly and kissed him on the nose. “Wouldn’t dream of it, old chap.”

He sighed and settled down into slumber once more. Lulled by the steady cadence of his heartbeat, I soon joined him.  

 I had set forth a line of inquiry to be handled with discretion and secrecy by trusted agents in London. I need now only wait to the answers, which would be gotten to me, even in Pall Mall, captive to my brother’s tender regard and my lover’s watchful care.

 

**


	30. "the science of life..."

 

**Finality: **

**Chapter 30:  “the science of life…”**

 

L.A. Adolf

_“The science of life is a superb and dazzlingly  
lighted hall which may be reached only by  
passing through a long and ghastly kitchen.”_

_ Claude Bernard, Intoduction a l’Etude de  
 la Medicine Experimentale_

 

_Watson:_

Our journey back to London was conducted via private car attached to one of the regular trains. Whilst a private compartment might well have done for all of us, Mycroft was as yet insistent that no expense be spared in providing for his brother’s comfort and privacy.

For his part, Holmes weathered the journey well, seated next to me for most of it, alternately conversing with myself, his brother, Clarky and Mrs. Hudson and nodding off on my shoulder, Gladstone napping at our feet.

Even with him beside me, I could feel the tension creeping back into me as we pulled into the station. I must fortify myself to deal with the ghosts of Cavendish Place and the sad duties yet to be performed. And I must certainly expect my in-laws to react badly to my two day absence to the coast.  But with my beloved no longer a continent away, I felt more certain of being able to weather any storm.

There was a small but energetic party awaiting our arrival in London.  Inspector Lestrade was its most prominent member, the rest of the gathering being made up of an assortment of Irregulars and other of Holmes’s agents about the city. 

I think my dearest was abashed that anyone at all should be on hand to welcome his return to London, for all that he was supremely confident of himself in all other matters, he was forever surprised that anyone might regard him with any softer emotion and rarely failed to be touched, however privately by a proffered regard. 

The rag-tag group of Irregulars was the most effusive of a generally affably relieved group. The Boys stood looking at him, eyes huge at first with probable shock at his as yet altered appearance. They then rushed forward as a body to greet him as they would a long lost relative. In truth, he might very well have been the nearest thing some of those unfortunate street Arabs possessed on that order of consanguinity.

Holmes soon found himself insulated in a mass of embraces, encircled by a brace of chattering boys, who “ooh-ed”, “awww-ed” and “tsk-tsk-ed” after him alternately with exclamations of “we just knowed that Professor cove couldn’t have kilt ya”, “Glad’te hae ye back, sir!”, “We right missed ye, Mr. ‘Olmes!” and other heartfelt sentiments. I myself was deeply affected and grateful for this evidence of their affectionate regard for my dearest.

I might have expected Holmes to bristle at such forward and extreme emotional displays and physical manhandling, but as I watched him--instantly prepared to rescue him from their enthusiastic attentions at the least sign of distress--I realized that he was not discomfited, in fact, quite the opposite. He was enjoying the attention, basking in the relief and love with which those small boys showered him, and profoundly touched.

He ruffled each wild-haired head, patted thin, small shoulders, spoke a word or two with each boy, calling him by name and asking after particulars in the lives of each one. He shook hands roundly with the older boys, and murmured his own quiet sentiments at seeing them all hale and hearty. He slipped them each a coin and when they stepped away from their effusive greeting, they still stood before him in a motley formation as soldiers would before a general.

Lestrade brought up the rear of the assembly, allowing each cabbie, growler driver, cart man and stable hand in the consulting detective’s network to approach Holmes before he stepped up to take his turn. 

I had watched him as he regarded Holmes with shocked sadness at first appearance on the platform. My attention, once engaged, focused on noting the play of emotions on the stolid policeman’s face as he observed Holmes.  It was interesting and significant to note that he moved quickly from somewhat dismayed pity to genuine pleasure to once again behold the man with whom he shared such a complicated relationship.

By the time he stood before my dearest Holmes, nodded a greeting to me, and stuck out a hand toward Holmes for shaking, his expression was one of controlled delight.

“It’s good to see you back in London, Mr. Holmes,” he said quietly, as Sherlock, without stint, grasped the proffered hand and shook it solemnly.

“Good to be back, Lestrade. Your Constable Clark acquitted himself admirably in my pursuit of Moriarty, you would do well to advocate for his promotion. He is a credit to Scotland Yard and yourself, sir.”  Holmes replied.

Lestrade smiled at the oblique compliment, delivered by way of the vetting of Clark’s comportment.

“I have and will Mr. Holmes. He cannot have but improved under your recent tutelage of him, for which I must thank you.” Lestrade paused for the barest of moments, his expression solemn.  “Gregson, Barton, Bradstreet, Hopkins would all have been here with me to welcome you back sir, but for the press of duty. We’d all like it to be said, sir, that we are very proud of you and if you came down to the Yard tomorrow, there’s not a man from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.” Lestrade continued, his gaze upon Holmes unwavering.

I watched, fascinated, as Holmes’s eyes flew wide, as though stunned by the heartfelt sentiment. I suspect in some ways, he must have been, the pair of them were not known to flatter each other, preferring instead to trade barbs and to snipe at each other mercilessly. For all that, I knew that Holmes did consider Lestrade the best of the professionals; I had long known that Holmes did not waste energy on wrangling verbally with anyone he did not hold in regard; all others he dismissed as merely insignificant.

He responded to Lestrade’s accolade with what must have seemed uncharacteristic warmth to the Inspector, for all that it was a quietly spoken thank you and the covering of the hand he yet clasped with his other. I thought I might have seen a bit of mist in both their eyes as they stepped away from each other.

In the interests of tending to the yet tenuous endurance of my beloved, Mycroft, Holmes, Gladstone and I soon found ourselves in a growler, headed for Pall Mall. Clarky had gallantly offered to escort Mrs. Hudson back to Baker Street, and Lestrade had returned to the Yard. I fancied that some of the Irregulars shadowed our four-wheeler, and would be found lurking not far off that august avenue, should their services be required by their mentor.

That could present a bit of a problem. Between us, Mycroft and I had determined that we should monitor Sherlock’s contact with the larger world, at least until such time as his vigor was more fully returned; his nerves restored some semblance of what they had been. We had no wish to deprive him of diversion, or at all invade his privacy, but he was far from fit for a return to being a consulting detective, and once it became known he had returned to the city, there would undoubtedly be people with cases, clamoring for his attention. I also wished to spare him further exposure to the unpleasantness surrounding Mary’s passing and at all cost sought to protect him from stumbling across the details of the true cause of her death.

Towards that end, Mycroft had aided me –before we departed Eastbourne– in submitting a request to have all of my wife’s records sealed. With the support of government official behind the petition, its adoption should be a matter of course. After that was confirmed, we could all breathe a bit more easily. Because of the mysteries of bureaucracy, it would take one or two day’s business to be enacted; we knew to be on our guard until word was received that it was a _fait accompli_.

It would be difficult to shield Holmes from information that could so devastate him, but it could not be impossible. The protection such a subterfuge offered the continued health and well being of my beloved was worth the small guilt I felt at its necessity.

The truly daunting task would be to find ways of distracting my dearest Holmes, engaging a mind that was well on its way to re-establishing itself as a formidable force, especially in those hours when I was otherwise occupied in seeing to Cavendish Place, the remnants of my private practice, and the details of Mary’s estate.

 

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I was strangely affected by the welcome I received upon arrival in London, but not so distracted that I did not seek out one face in that crowd of my well wishers, and be sure that we had the chance for a few small words and a hearty handshake. That I was self trained in the more practical aspects of sleight-of-hand enabled me to receive and hide the small scrap of paper thus transferred into my possession without Mycroft, Watson or Clark observing.

It was nothing more than a confirmation of a system of contact having been established that I had originally sketched in brief in my initial telegram, and a projected timeline for procurement and delivery of the requested documents. Even so it was good practice for the more elaborate deceptions that would be sure to come.

As I leaned back against the upholstery in the growler and closed my eyes, Watson’s dear and loving hand settling itself on my knee, I waged a small war with myself.

On one hand, I had all I had ever wanted, and more. Watson was my own!  We would, at least, in the very near future, be back at Baker Street, living together a fuller—if must needs more discreet-- life than either of us could have dreamed a few months earlier.

I _should _be content with that.

But there were shadows in my darling’s eyes that for all the outward peace and acceptance that he projected, spoke to me of there being more to the story of Mary’s passing than I had been told. His grief –while yet raw – was resolving—and I was grateful. _But_ as long as there remained an unknown in the equation of this dreadful event, I could not let well enough alone the puzzle of what had been left unsaid.

There still remained a small chance that–for all that I had been told otherwise–there was something unnatural surrounding Mary’s death, in which case I owed it to my beloved to avenge his loss. Even if that much had been the truth, there may be circumstances that now resulted in Watson being forced to live under a shadow of doubt or suspicion that I must clear from his name if I was to know any peace in my own mind.

Even if my inquiries revealed nothing, it was not in my nature to leave a single question unresolved.

**

_Mycroft:_

The experience of the last few months, notwithstanding, it was not easy to incorporate my brother into my household at Pall Mall.

Space was not an issue; I had ample room in my apartments that two bachelors might comfortably cohabit without rubbing together much at all.

Sherlock, for his part, endeavored to be on good behavior, stifling his natural tendencies towards disorder and bohemianism—at least insofar as he was able.

As siblings, we had once been well accustomed to each other’s foibles and idiosyncrasies. The past month had reminded me once more of some of my brother's tendencies which I had always found endearing. However, once a child becomes a man and moves away, it is very difficult to go back to the state of cohabitation once enjoyed.

I am a quiet man. I have my routines and live by the watch and the set actions of my day. My brother... is quite the opposite.

Whereas once all I'd had to do to entertain my brother was to sit him at my feet and tell him wild stories about faraway places, now, fanciful tales no longer kept his attention. He had long since embarked upon the adventure of his own fascinating life and in truth; his experience of the world had far eclipsed mine.

As considerate as he was attempting to be, it was still a bit shocking to wake up at three in the morning and find him gleefully chuckling to himself as he dissected one of the household mantel clocks in my den, apparently having removed himself from the comfort of Doctor Watson’s arms to do so.

When questioned, he admitted that he had noted that the clock in his room did not keep accurate time and could not sleep until he had gotten to the bottom of the problem!

I sent him back to bed on that occasion, promising not to inform the good Doctor of his nocturnal mischief. 

I must admit that save for the time of day he chose to undertake this activity, the ultimate effect on that particular timepiece was so salubrious that I engaged him to provide the same service on every other clock in the house.

This unanticipated diversion occupied Sherlock’s attention for a total of two days and never before or since has my household run on such wonderfully precise timetable.

On the third day of his “incarceration at Pall Mall”– a description overheard being murmured to Gladstone soon after he settled in – I entered my brother’s rooms to find him leaning rather precipitously out one of the windows, which he’d thrown open to the extent allowed by the sash.  He seemed in no immediate danger of tumbling out thankfully, so I set aside my impulse to dash forward and pull him to safety, and hung back to observe.

He was involved in a conversation with someone standing in the street below, conducted in low tones that I could not easily make out no matter how hard I might strain to do so.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I was drawn to the window by the impact of several small pebbles glancing off the glass.

I crossed to the window and threw open the sash. Glancing down to street level –much to my chagrin Mycroft’s apartments were 2nd floor making escape from my somewhat gilded cage impossible— I clapped eyes on young Smithers, one of the Irregulars who had not been in attendance the other day upon my return to London.

“Mr. ‘Olmes! Billy said you was back! Had’ta work elsewise I’da been at the train station ta welcome ya!” Smithers was blessed with a voice that carried well, at a lower volume than most, a trait that made him most invaluable for reportage at a distance such as this. I had no trouble hearing him even though he spoke conversationally, rather than having to shout.

“Yes! You’re engaged at the house next to Dr. Watson’s practice still?” I asked, more as a point of form than anything else, I’d seen to it myself that he’d been hired as a livery boy to Watson’s neighbors soon after my dearest doctor’s marriage.

“Aye! That’s why I’m here. Billy said to come tell ya if anything untoward ‘appened at the doctor’s—and it did a little while ago.”  Smithers paused, his eyes a-gleam, and I gestured to him to continue, and “Dr. Watson’s in-laws paid him a visit today and threw up a right row! Constable Clark chased ‘em off—but they stood outside yellin’ wantin’ to know what the doctor was tryin’ t’ hide—havin’ Miz Mary’s inquest records sealed.”

I goggled – rather uncharacteristically – at the lad for a moment before that information penetrated my boredom dulled brain. An inquest in any unattended death was a matter of course, but generally, the findings were public record.  Significant!

Mary Watson’s death inquest records sealed?  It was as well that those selfsame records were already on their way to me via a circuitous chain of operatives.  If the death were truly natural, why would there be a need to seal the records?  And why ever would Watson—if the Morstan in-laws were to be believed— have requested them to be so?

“Was anything more said?” I prompted after indulging in a moment’s digestion of these facts.

“Nah—Clarky got after them but good at that point, threatened to arrest them for disturbin’ the peace suchlike. They carried on same at the funeral—beratin’ the poor Doctor for not being home to care for Miz Mary when she needed him!  Me employer was ranting on about it after he got back from the services.”  Smithers reported matter of factly.

_Most interesting... _

I fished into my pockets for a crown and tossed it down at Smithers, “Well done!”  I praised, even as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I heard a small noise behind me, recognizing it as my brother’s distinctive footfall on the creaky floorboard in the doorway of my room.

 Using a secret signal known only to the Irregulars and myself to indicate I was being watched, I jerked my head slightly and stated, “If Doctor Watson is unable to take Gladstone for a walk this evening, I will send for you! I would exercise him myself except that I am apparently under ‘house arrest’.”

Smithers sketched me a salute and bounded off, happy to be able to be on his way and doubtless already plotting how best spend the coin clutched tightly in his hand.

“Mycroft!”  I performed a half turn, spying my brother hanging back a step or two in the hallway. I deduced that he’d made to enter the room as the evidence of my ears had already informed me. Upon seeing me engaged in conversation with someone outside, he had apparently had stepped backwards, attempting to eavesdrop undetected-- an action regrettably unworthy of him.

His action underscored the fact that there was information of great importance that as yet eluded me—aided and abetted, even if with good intention, by those closest to me.   




“Have you come to lock me in for the afternoon? I heard you tell your manservant that must be away to Whitehall today, are you making ready to leave?”  I asked conversationally, beckoning him into the room. He stepped into the doorway, but did not enter.

“Sherlock Holmes! You are by no means ‘under house arrest’, and given the lock-picking skills you acquired at a preternaturally early age,  any attempt at confining you would be pointless! I was merely coming to take my leave and to ask you not to terrorize the staff too much in my absence.  Think you can manage that, dear brother?”  Mycroft responded more than a trifle defensively.

I smiled at my sibling sweetly. “I never terrorize, Brother Mine! I merely offer advice on how they may utilize their time more efficiently.”    




Mycroft chuckled. My subterfuge with Smithers was apparently effective, I could detect no further stain of suspicion in his saturnine face.  “Well, please do so as kindly as possible. I’ve gotten quite used to this particular staff and I’m not inclined to interview for replacements.  Oh! I almost forgot,” My brother paused dramatically.

I raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Inspector Lestrade will be dropping by at some point post meridian, he communicated to me that he has some case or other that is giving him a bit of grief, and he wishes your opinion on it. I cautioned him to be careful and not overtax you, if he becomes too demanding, you have only to ask one of my staff to intervene and they will send him on his way.”

“He’s probably lost the keys to his desk again. I have no doubt I shall be able to handle both him and his case, and send him off merrily on his way, Brother.” 

Mycroft inclined his head in my direction and took his leave.

I sighed gustily.

Lestrade no more had a case that was troubling him than I had aspirations to the prime ministership of the Empire.  But it would be a few hours of amusement to wrangle with the Inspector, and his visit promised to break the monotony of a day already grown too long. 

I pined for my Watson, grew increasingly restive at his daily absences, as necessary as they were.  The occasion when we could both return to Baker Street could not come soon enough.  I hungered after that blessed day, when we could reestablish ourselves in a home that would be truly ours for the first time, never mind our previous years of cohabitation.

Lestrade’s ‘case’; the growing mystery of the Morstan’s insufferable treatment  of my dearest Watson now documented on at least _two_ occasions; and the sealing of the records of what had been purported to be a completely natural death.

Perhaps the hours would fly by with so much of note to occupy my attention.

**


	31. Intermezzo: a Finality Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the home stretch is entered, I present herewith a "Finality" interlude.
> 
> New friend Nodbear has discovered-- in a trunk in the attic of her grandmother—a stray document from the estate of of a certain John Hamish Watson, carefully kept back from his literary archive at Cox and Company, his literary executors…
> 
> In actuality, Nodbear has written a beautiful sonnet in the voice of John Watson from the "Finality" fic-verse and presented it to me. In return I've written a bit of a frame for it and I present it here to you for your enjoyment.
> 
> Regularly scheduled programming will resume shortly!

_Before the home stretch is entered, I present herewith a “Finality” interlude. _

_New friend Nodbear has discovered-- in a trunk in the attic of her grandmother—a stray document from the estate of of a certain John Hamish Watson, carefully kept back from his literary archive at Cox and Company, his literary executors…_

_In actuality, Nodbear has written a beautiful sonnet in the voice of John Watson from the “Finality” fic-verse and presented it to me. In return I’ve written a bit of a frame for it and I present it here to you for your enjoyment. _

_Regularly scheduled programming will resume shortly!_

 

**Finality: **

**Chapter 30a: Intermezzo**

_In-ter-mez-zo / [in-ter-met-soh, -med-zoh]  
a short musical composition between main  
divisions of an extended musical work._

 

_Dr. John Hamish Watson_

I was, blessedly, coming to an end of the business that kept me tied for so many hours a day to Cavendish Place.  After today I would need only to make brief visits to this place to acquaint estate agents and other such worthies with its details and appurtenances.

 I would be gone now except that I awaited a carter and rag and bone man and deal with the detritus of what had once been my married life.

While there were yet details to be attended to, including a final decision regarding the sale  of my practice, much of it could be done away from the house which I had entered with such grand hopes.  It was no longer a home, instead an empty shell of a structure peopled by shades, shadows and ghosts.

I had another home, one that could be counted as shelter to my heart and soul, even though it had no walls save those of the corporeal structure of human anatomy.  I knew with undying conviction that Holmes was my home, wherever he might be so would be my security and surcease, my family and my fate.

I castigated myself for sending Clarky home early today—I could wish in this lonely moment in this empty structure for his cheerful face and soothing manner. 

The shelves about me were all empty, no diversion to be found there.  My books were all gone, sent back in boxes to Baker Street, where I soon hoped to take up permanent residence again. 

I had left myself paper, pen and ink, for one never knew when a note might need to be written, a carton to be labeled, or a direction given.

Certainly, scribbler that I was, I could create my own amusement?

I sat in quiet contemplation for a moment, recreating a montage  of memories in my mind’s eye of the last few days, the last weeks, the last months, the last year, the last five…

I had come so very close to losing so much that was vital to my very existence!  How very capricious were the turns of fate?  An hour’s delay here or there, a missed train, a wrong turning? 

A brother investigating a noise in the night seconds too late?  An impulse to rouse and draw back from the brink a dying man not undertaken in respect for the peace and sanctity of the sick room?  Any or all and the course of my life would be forever altered, my hope for happiness destroyed!

Once married and twice widowed…

No!

I conjured my beloved in my mind—pushing away the niggling thought that to do so here, in the home of my marriage was somehow disrespectful to Mary. She’d known how important Holmes was to me—better than I myself at times in fact. She hadn’t forced me to choose—knew me in ways that I was only beginning to discover myself.  She would approve.

 

Images flooded my consciousness, so real and intense that I closed my eyes to the gloom around me, concentrating on their beauty and vividness.

Holmes asleep, awake.  Sunk in the blackest of moods, transported to joy by the discovery of a clue or a heartfelt compliment.  Eyes dancing with mischief, dark with despair.  Stripped to the waist, chest glistening with sweat,  reeling about the boxing ring; dressed in his—my ofttimes—best clothing at the opera or at dinner at the Royale.  Breathless from a chase; puffing at his pipe, contemplative.

My everything and my all.

I drew the pen from its holder and touched it to paper and let my heart speak what too often, my voice could not…

 

_How would I start to speak of you? As friend  
and lover both? Or of your wisdom, love  
frailty, strength – yes, paradox, indeed! Send  
me a muse that can combine your graces, prove  
all these are you, and much and richer far  
and with all these I am blessed in knowing you.  
Through loss and painful fear and doubts which are  
now fading, we both have learned how true  
the leading of the heart, when tempered close  
By thought and loyal care. We have so great  
a gift between us  freely given, like the rose  
whose  silent eloquence yet dares to state  
in face of all life’s worst,  that herein lies  
our mutual giving, no heaven a greater prize._

 

I laid down the pen, looked down at the paper and read, humbled the thoughts that my heart had vouchsafed to say.

Thoughtful, I picked up the writing instrument once more.

 

_JHW, for SH, wishing the former were anything of a poet  
but with all the love that might perfect what skill cannot._

I blotted the ink, reached for an envelope, and carefully folded the parchment sheet placing it inside. In careful, elaborate script, I traced out my beloved’s name on the front of the envelope.

I would have Holmes read it.  Perhaps not today, nor tomorrow, nor even next week.  But I would share it with him on a day not too far distant, a sonnet risen directly from my soul, a testament to my love.

 

**

 

Finality Sonnet in the Voice of John Hamish Watson  
c.claimed, details available from [enkiduts@aol.com](mailto:enkiduts@aol.com)

Used by permission.


	32. "the breaches made..."

**Finality:**

**Chapter 31: “the breaches made…”**

 

L.A. Adolf

 

_“And as pale sickness does invade,  
your frailer part,the breaches made,  
In that frail lodging still more clear,  
make the bright quest, your soul appear.”_

_Edmund Waller, A La Malade_

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I actually found myself uncharacteristically in complete sympathy with poor Inspector Lestrade as I bid him good day and watched him leave my brother’s apartments at Pall Mall.

He’d done a journeyman’s job of attempting to offer me a mildly engaging and amusing distraction in the form of an easily solved, petty crime case that had crossed the desk of one of his colleagues, but his heart was not truly in it.

I like to think that he enjoyed his visit for its own sake, but when it came to being cast in the equivalent role of nanny and wet-nurse to a fully grown, if somewhat frail man, he felt entirely out of his element.

And indeed he was. 

Lestrade, for all that we verbally sparred and disparaged each other, was a consummate professional. He might not be one of the brightest lights in Scotland Yard, but he was one of the steadiest and most dependable. He was a good man, with a finely honed sense of justice and a belief that the lowest street Arab deserved an equal dispensation of same as the highest born lord. To waste that steadfastness on amusing me during my captivity in Pall Mall was a shameful waste of good talent.

I could see my brother’s rather heavy hand in poor Lestrade being sent to dance attendance on me, just as I saw his influence elsewhere in so much that delineated my current, circumscribed existence.  The scarcity of certain newspapers; the fact that I was never left completely alone in the apartments; that my presence back in London, aside from the group that met me at the train station was kept undisclosed; the inescapable fact that if I ever decided to take a turn out of doors without Watson on my arm, I would find myself escorted by no less a personage than my brother’s butler, all spoke of Mycroft’s loving, but infernal interference.

I would never have guessed my brother to be so damnably overprotective.  He had ever been my champion, it was true, but advancing age seemed to have transformed a formerly only mildly annoying tendency into an outright mania.

My plan to secure the intelligence that had heretofore escaped me was close to fruition. My meeting to retrieve my packet of information was set, merely awaiting my presentation at a prearranged meeting point to accept the hand off of the documents. Within twenty four hours, I would have the information I sought, in all its detail and reality and could then begin to formulate a plan of action, if such was required.

But only if I could slip my bonds long enough to reach the rendezvous point, unaccompanied and unobserved.

I turned away from my bedroom window ceasing my study the city that I was held so frustratingly apart from, feeling rather like a fly caught in amber.  Inactivity had never set well with me. Now I found it exhausting, both mentally and physically in ways that exceeded my previous experience.

My body was quick to turn frustration and boredom into detrimental physical expression. My limbs were heavy with fatigue; I could barely lift them up and away from my body.  It took extreme focus and concentration merely to pass a vaguely trembling hand before tired eyes.

I was warm and cold all at the same time, my head felt light.  I perceived that particular clamminess of my skin that spoke of enervation and prolonged fever.

I cursed once again the weakness and debility of a body that had once been a finely honed instrument vital in the performance of my chosen profession and wondered if I would ever achieve a state of health again in this lifetime.  Some days the chance of that seemed vanishingly small. For every forward step on the road to a return to health I took it seemed that I was pushed back two paces.

I stumbled, huge black spots swimming before my eyes. I somehow managed to catch the edge of a writing table and keep myself upright. I could feel the burn of fever returning.

Why would this not stop? What more could I do than be the useless, inactive lump I’d late become in order to vanquish this infirmity once and for all?

I staggered to the bed and sat on the edge of it. To accomplish the task I had set before me for the morrow, I would have to hide from Watson the true extent of my lingering frailty.

But my dearest was a perceptive man and a gifted physician who looked at me through eyes of love tempered with a doctor’s sensibilities.

I lay myself down on the bed.  A short nap, perhaps, would turn the tide, Enable me to regain a bit of the ground I’d lost.

I was mercilessly waylaid by a traitorous body.  I descended down into a deep and leaden sleep from which I would not emerge for hours.

 

_Mycroft:_

I watched as Watson seated himself across from me, something in his manner speaking of a bone weariness that concerned me.  The latest theatrics performed on his doorstep by his in-laws had been reported to me soon after my arrival at Whitehall and no doubt contributed to the poor man’s worn state.

With all else the good doctor had to concern himself, not the least of which was my brother, he little needed such sustained and completely unnecessary stresses as the ill-bred Morstans harassing his every move.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, John, I am deeply indebted.”  I offered, and was rewarded with a tired smile and a wave of dismissal.  “I wanted to speak to you regarding several subjects, and I am somewhat tied to my desk for the remainder of today at least.”

“I was finished at Cavendish Place; your message arrived with perfect timing.” Watson replied, fiddling a bit with his walking stick.

“The inquest records have been sealed, in advance of the normal schedule, as we requested.  I had confirmation of that fact waiting for me when I arrived in my office this afternoon.”

“I had guessed as much from the incursion by my former in-laws. It would seem that nothing much escapes them these days.”  Watson replied.

“I am sorry. Clarky was able to deal with them, sparing you exposure I hope?” I queried, knowing that indeed, the good constable had done exactly that.  Watson nodded, and I moved quickly on.  There might yet be something I could do to remove the distraught parents of the late Mrs. Watson from the doctor’s orbit, or he from theirs, which was one of the reasons for my summoning him.

“I am, it will not surprise you to learn, concerned about Sherlock, and I wanted to discuss a few things with you.  You know he’s been wandering the apartments at night?  The household timepieces are all the better for his nocturnal clock repair, but the underlying tendency toward wakefulness in the watches of the night worries me.”

Watson sighed, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily, and then opening them, a somewhat sad cast to his expression.  “Yes. It would seem a return to London is bringing back a number of his bad habits.  He has always been given to restlessness at odd hours, even in the bloom of health and spirits.  Thus far he’s sleeping soundly before and after his midnight excursions, and while I would prefer he take his rest uninterrupted, I am resigned to being grateful for what I can get. It may be nothing more than excess energy that he needs to burn off in order to return to his ease.”

“But it might be something else?  How is he doing, really, Doctor, since returning to London?  We’ve not really had an opportunity to discuss the state of his health since we’ve come back from Newhaven.”  It was true, as far as it went and I really did desire an updated report.

Watson took a deep breath. “Overall, he is making progress towards a full recovery; I do truly believe and wish to reassure you of that fact. However, his tendency towards a relapsing fever is worrisome, especially with its concomitant inclination towards enervation. There is not much to be done for either but continued rest, but as you know your brother is not given to prolonged inactivity, and his reaction to boredom is counterproductive to attaining that state.  His mind is recovering ahead of his body and as he has always enslaved the latter to the former…”  The doctor allowed his thought to trail off.

“It is something of a conundrum.  I was wondering, doctor, if perhaps we were not precipitous in returning him to the city?  London’s bustle, bad air, overcrowding cannot provide the most efficacious environment in which to recover one’s health.  A city this size never truly is at rest, and perhaps it is too much to expect that my brother, whilst in its environs and so attuned to its rhythm could ever be either.” I mused.

“We had little choice at the time. The atmosphere in Leukerbad was beneficial and I would have preferred his convalescence continue there, as you know.  I have been tied to London myself until today, and we know he does not fare well without me.”

“Perhaps I can ask you to consider something?  At least give it some thought?  I’m sure my brother has told you that I own an estate in Chichester, which stands relatively unused for most of the time due to the exigencies of my work and life in London.  Might a removal of my brother and yourself to its premises effect a benefit?  I have a staff in residence, the grounds are spacious and lovely, the air quite clean and clear, especially at this time of year. The entirety of the estate would be at your disposal for however long you wish, hopefully long enough for Sherlock’s health to resolve itself more fully.”

Watson looked at me, conflicted.  “Such a retreat could have nothing but beneficial effects, provided my dearest can be provided with enough distractions while in residence, which I might possibly be able to assure.  For myself however, I have been absent from London far more than is seemly for a widower, a fact which has inflamed my late wife’s parents to no end…”

“I cannot think that anyone but the most mean spirited and heartless would deny one recently bereaved of the comfort of the quiet privacy of the country and the congenial company of a limited number of close friends.  You must not allow their bad behavior to stand in the way of your health and happiness. The new generation is increasingly of the opinion that the institutions of mourning are overdone and antiquated, I was reading an article on the subject just the other day.”

Watson smiled a tentative, gentle thing.  “I will consider it, for Sherlock’s sake above my own, of course.  I still have a few loose ends to be tied up in London; it would not be possible to make the change for a few days yet.”

“Just know that the invitation is open, you have only to claim it.”  I paused, considering the wisdom of reporting the event I had witnessed in Sherlock’s room before coming to Whitehall today.  “I hesitate to speak of this, Watson, but in taking my leave of Sherlock today, I saw him engaged in conversation, leaning quite precipitously out the open window of his bedroom.”

Watson’s eyebrows crept up his forehead.  “With whom was he conversing? He came to no mischief, obviously, or you would have recalled me to the house and not here to your office…”

“No harm done, although if he’d been overtaken by one of his occasional dizzy spells when so engaged, it might have been tragic…”  I allowed the thought to dangle for a moment.  “Apparently he was speaking with one of his little street urchins—“

“An Irregular?”  Watson interjected, “whatever about?”

“When I entered the room, there was discussion about the lad taking Gladstone for a walk if you were not available or so disposed…”

“Odd, Holmes knows that when I cannot exercise our dog, that one of your staff is always at the ready to do so. Oh.”  Watson’s tiredness might be slowing his reasoning skills a bit, but had not derailed them.  “That was subterfuge.  He heard you coming and covered the true nature of their tête-à-tête I take it.”

“That was my impression, but I was not able to determine what the subject of their conversation was.”

Watson gave a gusty sigh.  “The Irregulars are his eyes and ears all over the city. It could have been any number of things. From the latest opera opening at the Royal Opera House to which scullery maid is romancing which groom below stairs at Downing Street.”

“Or the latest happenings around and about Cavendish Place,” I suggested thoughtfully.

Watson frowned.  “Or that,” he admitted ruefully.  “His mind grows ever active and with the two of us committed to each other, finally, he might very well be commissioning intelligence regarding myself when I am not at his side.”

“I have one other item I’d like to beg your favor regarding. You remember that I mentioned to you our cousin, Reginald Verner, who is desirous of purchasing a thriving London medical practice?  I am in no way pressuring you to come to a decision, but Cousin Reginald will be in the city on other business tomorrow and available for an interview with you, should you be inclined.  I thought it might be a good opportunity for you to take his measure, and he to see if he can commit to all that a London practice entails.  He would be desirous of a new living arrangement as well, and expressed interest in taking over Cavendish Place from you, if you were amenable as well.  Might I presume that you would be willing to meet with him in the forenoon?”  I laid the last of my cards upon the proverbial table.

Watson’s mouth drew first into a stern line, then softened, expanding to a broad smile. 

“I would be willing.  Someone to take over the property would relieve me of further wrangling with estate agents and their ilk.  It would be a huge relief to know that that the house and possibly my  practice would transfer into capable hands.” He said thoughtfully.  “It would make a withdrawal to Chichester come about earlier than otherwise as well.  I suspect you know all this.”

“What I know and what I might presume are two entirely different things, John,” I said warmly, if a touch wryly.  “I know you are tired and must be wanting very much to return to Sherlock, so I shan’t keep you any longer. I will let Cousin Reginald know, and when I return to Pall Mall this evening, give you the precise time you might expect him?”

“Please.  And thank you, Mycroft.  You’ve restored my ability to hope that better days might yet be coming, if only your brother can be compelled to relax and take better care of himself.”

I sighed theatrically.  “That, my dear doctor, is ever the eternal struggle.”

 

**

_Watson:_

I returned to Pall Mall with much to occupy my mind that afternoon.  Mycroft’s invitation to make use of his Chichester estate  was compelling, and something of a godsend to my frazzled nerves, truth be told.

I had been on edge for all these few days since our return from Newhaven, both from the incursions made into my peace and privacy by my enraged in-laws and from distracted and prolonged worry about Holmes himself.

Insomnia was but one aspect of behavior that had caused me concern in these past few days in London.  I sensed about him a restlessness that went deeper than nighttime wanderings, as though being back in London at all was an inescapable draw to an immediate return to his chosen profession, whether or not his physical condition was ready for such or not.  His health was still frangible, the legacy of brain fever being such that full recovery could take months and sometimes even years to fully effect.  The less patience he had with himself, the more he pushed his physical stamina to return to its former state, the longer a true recovery might be expected to take. 

It was not something I could discuss with him easily, because I was not sure how much of his reversion to his normal modus operandi was conscious.  He could quite sincerely and truthfully promise to follow all my strictures regarding his health and fully intend to do so, but not be able to help himself.  He was and always had been his own worst enemy in matters of such regard.  

He would not be happy about removal from the city he loved, so soon after returning to it.  And yet, he might be convinced that the countryside offered charms as yet undiscovered.  And perhaps, recalling a time when he was desirous of the pair of us retreating to that selfsame location at a time when I was ‘overtired’ during the Blackwood case, I would be able to use my own very real need to be quit of the trials of life in London, to my advantage.

And his.

I climbed the stairway and moved quietly down the hallway outside our room, rapping softly on the door.  When there was no response, I opened it softly.

Holmes was sprawled across the bed, fully clothed, shoes still on, snoring softly.  Charmed by the peaceful picture he presented, I moved across the room and stood beside the bed, looking down at him while he slept.

The lover in me wanted to do nothing more than to watch him doze, but the doctor in me took note of minor indications that the slumber was not as sweetly peaceful as it first appeared.

His color was off again, and there was the light sheen of perspiration on his forehead.  As I watched he moved restlessly, as though he could not quite find a comfort level conducive to a slip into deeper sleep.

I carefully moved closer and grazed his forehead with my hand. 

Fever.  Again.  Not blazing, but not insignificant either. 

I sighed.  He could have taken all sorts of malaise, chill or bad air from leaning out an open window for Providence only knew how long.  Or his excitable mind, its cogs and wheels ever whirring, might have inflamed the fever that was never long dormant in his system. Whatever the cause, it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was not in the best environment in which to regain his health.

I removed his shoes, and covered him with a counterpane, and seated myself at his bedside to assume vigil.  If he woke in the next couple of hours feeling restored, all would be right enough.  If he did not, I might have see about having Mycroft’s cook prepare willow bark tea, in an effort to bring his temperature back under control.

Country air, quiet and privacy.  They sang a siren song to me.  I would have to discuss with Holmes my need to accept his brother’s newly proffered invitation, make it seem what I needed, more than what would be good for him.

**


	33. "no help in truth..."

**Finality:**

**Chapter 32: “no help in truth…”**

 

L.A. Adolf

 

_How dreadful knowledge of the truth can be  
when there is no help in truth!_

_Sophocles, Oedipus Rex, line 356_

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

“Holmes?”

I was awakened from a restless slumber by a gentle touch to my face.

I opened my eyes to Watson’s face bent close to mine, the palm of his hand pressed to my cheek.

“Watson…” I breathed his name, unable to control the relief and wonder in my voice. My dreams—more on the order of nightmares--had seemed to consist of my beloved being far from me unable to return; to wake and find him solid and real before me, was like manna fallen from the sky.

“How are you feeling?” My dearest’s voice was such a soft and gentle thing, I wanted to confess all—detail the dizziness, the fever, weakness, the bad dreams and discomfort that penetrated even the veil of sleep, but I remembered I needed to be out and about the next day. That wouldn’t do.  But I was yet flush with fever, dissembling would not work either.




“As though I am never going to know a day’s true health again.” I said instead without stirring from my recumbent position.

His blue eyes were soft with empathy. “You will.  I promise you. But it will take time and patience. You must remember how very ill you were, for so long…” he paused, his broad shoulders seeming to bend inward, his strong frame wracked by a shudder—all at the memory?   “And not that long ago. You’ve really made remarkable progress, we must never forget that, nor cease to be grateful for it.”




“I am sorry, Watson,” I responded, my heart clenching at the pain I sensed in his words, even as he tried to comfort and reassure me. 

“Whatever for, Holmes?”  He asked, taken aback, brow creasing with confusion.

I hitched myself up on the bed, easing back against the headboard as I studied my beloved John’s face. He was exhausted, I could see that plainly now, his own color somewhat grey, the handsome face lined beyond his years with fatigue. I wondered how much of that might be laid at my door, ever a trial to those about me, always a burden to this man that I professed to love with all my heart and soul.

“For the strain I’ve caused you. Love should nourish and sustain, I seem to have the opposite effect. I have never loved ---before, I seem to have no innate gift for it.”

Watson looked at me in fond exasperation for a moment then hopped up from the chair he’d been sitting on and perched next to me on the bed. He took my face in both of his hands, not allowing me to look away, as I wanted, in my shame.

“Shush. If I am tired, it is not because of you—my soul and nerves have been severely tried these last days, seeing to the closing of Cavendish Place, and fending off the accusations of my in-laws, who think I was not where I should have been and have not done what I ought. I thought it would all drive me mad, when I was here in London alone, and you back on the Continent. But then you came, and my soul has been nourished and my heart sustained, and I’ve been able to survive the days of dreary business because I knew I could come home to you after the day was done!”

“I want to believe that, but—” I began, only to have a fingertip not my own pressed against my lips.

“Believe it. For it is the truth.” Watson’s voice was low, quiet, and utterly convincing in its utterances.

“I am the reason your in-laws are angry, it was my idiocy that led to you being called away—” I persisted, for I have ever had a stubborn streak, and an unwillingness to remove myself from the field of debate in defeat.

“Holmes! Your heroism in bringing a villain to justice stands unassailable!  And I was not ‘called away’; I followed you of my own volition and with Mary’s complete blessing. My in-laws are overwrought with grief which robs them of sense and discretion, only time and reflection will bring them back to themselves. You will not take any blame on yourself for circumstances beyond your ability to control! Understood?” Watson’s tone brooked no argument and quite suddenly, I no longer possessed the will to fight him. 

“Understood,” I said meekly.  Only to this man would I so willingly submit.

“Good. Now, Mycroft’s cook has sent up some willow bark tea and a light repast. I would have you do your best with both—will you? For me?”

For the first time since I awakened, I was cognizant of the passage of time. I’d lain down to nap mid afternoon, it was now early evening, judging by the change in the angle of the sunlight coming through the windows. I nodded acquiescence. 

For my dearest Watson, anything.

**

_Watson:_

I watched Holmes manfully apply himself to the light meal—if only after I convinced him that I had already eaten—even though it was obvious that he had little appetite. He approached the tea with far more alacrity, knowing as well as I of its fever reducing properties and seemingly eager to take full advantage of them.

His energy was such that meal and tea finished, he did not argue with me when I bade him put on his nightshirt and resume taking his ease in bed, making only token protest as I held up the bedclothes for him to crawl between.

He sagged back against the pillows I’d fluffed up for him, running a hand across his eyes, the dying summer sunlight glancing into the room seeming to bother him. I quickly closed the curtains about the room.  He’d not suffered a migraine in weeks, but I would not take the chance that the waning sun might excite his strained nervous system to respond with one.

I lit a bedside lamp, adjusting its light to a soft glow, then, well past tired myself, I followed the advice I’d given Holmes, changing into a nightshirt and slipping into bed next to him.

Ever since our return to London, I’d read to Holmes each evening, hoping to lull and soothe his mind towards restful sleep. I picked up the volume from the bedside table, and drawing him close, resumed the nightly ritual.   Clearing my throat, I began to read from Barrett-Browning’s _Sonnets from the Portuguese_:


  


> “Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand  
> Henceforward in thy shadow.  
> Nevermore alone upon the threshold of my  
> door of individual life, I shall command  
> the uses of my soul, nor lift my hand  
> serenely in the sunshine as before…”

Holmes sighed happily, his head pressed to my chest (“the better to appreciate the fine timber of your voice, Watson. It truly is quite extraordinary!”).

        “Without the sense of that which I forbore--  
        Thy touch upon the palm.  The widest land  
        doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine  
        with pulses that beat double.  
        What I do and what I dream include thee,  
        as the wine must taste of its own grapes.  
        And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine,  
        And sees within my eyes the tears of two.”

Holmes reached up, plucked the book from my hand and laid it aside.  Raising himself up, he strained toward me, his mouth claiming mine.

We were neither of us prepared for more than the long and lingering kisses we shared, glorying in the relative peace of our room and the luxury of being together as we were, comforted and comfortable, the realities of the world seeming for once far away.

“Watson!” 

I was startled to hear Holmes calling my name with something close to alarm.  My eyes, which unaccountably were closed, snapped open.

“I begin to doubt my abilities as a budding Lothario, when you doze off mid kiss, my dearest,” My beloved admonished quietly.

Had I really---?

“Watson, are you listening to me?” 

I must have.

“Not really old boy!  I’m sorry, Holmes, but I’m so very tired tonight.” I apologized, my eyes still so very heavy that I could not seem to keep them open.

“I shall leave you alone to sleep then!” Holmes replied, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice, but failing. 

He pulled away from me, or rather, attempted to. I roused myself, tightening my arm about him and pulling him closer once again.

 “No.  This... this is what I want.  What I need. Please…  I’ve missed our quiet nights in the country, the utter tranquility of the chalet, the blessed nights we spent in each other’s arms at the seaside.  London never rests, her activity pulls and strains. I never noticed before…”

“My poor dear boy! You are entirely done in aren’t you? How much longer are you tied to the closing of Cavendish Place?” Holmes shifted in my arms, until it was no longer I holding him, but he embracing me. 

“I have an appointment tomorrow to interview someone who is interested in both the house and my practice, and then I am free to spend all my time with you and plan our return to Baker Street.” I admitted. I was much more awake now, but I kept my eyes three quarters closed, and my voice low, as if I yet hovered on the edge of sleep.

I knew when an idea was forming in that keen mind, if I was careful I might be able to urge it the direction Mycroft and I had discussed.

“It is settled then! Watson! I shall speak to Mycroft about having the use of his Chichester estate! If it is the country you yearn for, you shall have it, mother hen!”

“But Holmes, you’ve only just gotten back to London, I don’t want to move you for my benefit.  I know how much you missed the city.”

“London be damned, Watson! Your health and nerves are more important to me than the city!”

I levered one eye open somewhat theatrically, “A part of me wants to refuse, but another- Oh, Holmes, the country sounds so very peaceful right now!”

Holmes sat up, as if to rise, “I must take as good care of you as you have of me. I shall speak to Mycroft at once!” He exclaimed, seemingly intent on acting immediately.

 “Holmes, tomorrow morning is soon enough. Please, just stay with me, let me hold you?” I opened my eyes wide and allowed them to plead my case.

I drew him back down against me, petting and soothing him until he relaxed into me. I renewed the kiss I’d had the bad manners to fall asleep during earlier.

Capitulation was a foregone conclusion, as was our sojourn to Chichester.

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

Watson’s exhaustion was such, that after a few minutes of savoring each other, he once again fell asleep. 

He was right, of course, asking Mycroft for the use of his estate could wait for the morrow. I followed my beloved into slumber, his steady heartbeat beneath my ear the very best of lullabies.

The dreams when they came echoed those of earlier. 

_I was in the Punchbowl, taking on a hulking brute fully half again as large as myself.  I felt energetic, my muscles toned and I in total control of them, my reflexes as sharp as ever. I gloried in the sensation; it had been so very long since I had felt such vigor and vitality coursing through my body._

_ I turned, seeking out Watson, who moments before had been ringside. Having made his usual bet, he had settled in to watch his champion perform his inevitable win. I wanted to show him how his good care of me had paid off, how restored and robust I now was._

_But he was gone. Only his walking stick, which leaned against the wooden wall of the ring, remained. It was not like him to ever be separated from it._

_“Watson!” I shouted, calling for him, frantically searching the sea of leering faces that ringed the boxing pit.  _

_But he was nowhere to be found. I dashed from the ring, searching for him in the bar proper and when not found there, out into the gloom of a foggy London street._

I started awake, eyes jolting open to the darkness of the bedroom. It was merely a dream, Watson was curled around me, warm and solid, and my body, traitor to the cause, no longer felt invincible in its energy, but worn and weak. __

It was well after midnight, as my vision adjusted to the ambient light, I could see the time by the mantel clock.

Outside the windows, London throbbed, the bass note of its life force a steady background rhythm, a siren song to some small corner of my spirit.

My pattern was set; it would be hours before I could expect to fall asleep again.

Cautiously I made to remove myself from the bed, lest my restlessness communicate itself to Watson.

I was almost successful when his voice stopped me.

“Holmes. No. Stay with me.  Please.” He breathed, his voice low and throaty.  He reached out an arm and drew me back, pressing himself into my side.

I was –startled!– when his hand snaked out, settling itself gently and reverently on that most private of places, a warm weight resting delicately against my flaccid manhood. It took me a moment to adjust to the intimate contact, and a moment longer for that skilled hand to begin its tender ministrations.

Never before had Watson petted and stroked me so lovingly and assiduously – there!  At least not with such dedicated purpose and delicious friction! It was not long before I was fully erect, straining against his gifted attentions. Only a few moments beyond that, I was shuddering with a cascade of exquisite sensations, fighting to maintain my tenuous hold on mere consciousness against the fireworks that exploded in my groin, behind my eyes, in my heart.

I collapsed, sobbing, back onto the bed and into my beloved’s waiting arms, barely sensate as he sprinkled my face, my neck, my chest with the sweetest and most soothing of kisses.

I lay, gasping, as he rose from the bed, padded across the floor and came back from the water closet with a damp cloth, and with a sensitivity that would have broken my heart had it not already been shattered into a million pieces, cleaned up the evidence of my cataclysmic release.

“I-Is it a-always like that?” I managed to find a small revenant of my voice, and steeled myself for my lover, renowned over three continents for his experience, to laugh at my ignorance and naïveté. 

But instead, he drew me, limp and helpless as a rag doll, into the wondrous strength of his arms, tucked me against his side, and hummed lightly, no trace of anything but warmth and love in his whispered response.

“Not always, beloved, quite often it is even better.”

**

_Watson:_

Holmes slept solidly through the rest of the night, his utter relaxation insured by the profundity of his release. There were no more dreams, no further restlessness. Just a pliant, tranquil body, peacefully immobile, nerves calmed and quiescent. 

Why had I never thought to distract him thus before, when I knew sleeplessness was upon him?

Perhaps I had been hesitant for fear of frightening him with such foreign sensations, or perhaps I had feared my own reactions to such a profound event.  My dearest was, after all, an innocent in such matters, and the taking of that innocence was not a task to be embarked upon lightly. 

But no matter my previous hesitation, I could not help the smile that tugged at my lips as I remembered watching Holmes sleep, his countenance peaceful. Now that the first steps had been taken, perhaps I should endeavor to do so more often. After all, I was the experienced partner, and it would be a disservice to my beloved to withhold that competence.   

The smile grew as my thoughts started to drift towards the possibilities.  So very many possibilities…

“Why Watson, you’re in fine color this morning, I trust you slept well?” Mycroft’s voice boomed across the breakfast table, startling me out of my reverie.

“I-I did, in fact, thank you.” I responded, not wanting to make eye contact with the brother of the man I’d held all night, wantonly disheveled as he’d slept like an angel in post-coital bliss.

“Sherlock seems much restored this morning. He just assailed me as I passed your room, asking permission for the use of the Chichester estate.  Which I have immediately given, of course. It has been a long time since I’ve seen him so animated, yet so fundamentally at ease…” Mycroft’s voice was perfectly sincere, yet I detected…

_I must not think of it, I must not- _I told myself sternly, lest that open face of mine, which Holmes often despaired of, gave me utterly away.

“Thank you, Doctor, for your excellent medicine.” Mycroft concluded his monologue, whilst a blush crept its way up from my collar. 

I wondered vaguely, as I tried to control a traitorous body, if Mycroft was given to peeping through keyholes.

I waved off his approbation, unspeaking.

“You meet with Reginald at noon today?” Mycroft continued, the arch tone completely gone.

“I do. I promised Holmes a bit of an outing if his fever had dropped this morning.  A walk to the edge of the park and back, after which I will be off to Cavendish Place and our meeting.”  I responded, my voice finally my own to command again.

“I shall wire the estate and notify them to expect you—possibily as early as tomorrow, or the day after? You have only to request anything you might need, both in preparation for departure and for the length of your stay there.” Mycroft stated, then, as was his habit, fell into silence as he tucked into his morning repast.

**

I had managed to regain my composure by the time that Holmes and I left the house for our promised walk, and this one Holmes brother, at least was blessedly willing to leave things unsaid that were so very intimate.

If I had feared that my dearest might wish to overanalyze the circumstances of the night before, I was pleasantly surprised. His only reference to our new level of intimacy, was briefly expressed by pressing me against the wall of our room before our departure.

“I would that you would teach me to do the same for you Watson, at your leisure.” He whispered quietly between kisses that verged from sweetly chaste to wickedly passionate. “_Thank you_!”

I was ever more gratified that I’d taken our relations to this new level this morning, and later in the day, when so much changed.

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

After such a night spent, anything seemed possible come the dawn! 

The new day began, pregnant with promise. I felt a new wave of hope that given time and the diligent attentions of my dearest doctor I could, indeed attain my goal of restored health and vitality.

Today, I would have the answers I sought, clear my mind of any lingering misgiving and if need be, Watson’s reputation from even the hint of any stain. We would then repair to the tranquility of my brother’s estate, to regain our wellbeing and strength, to explore the wondrous possibilities of our hard won and dearly bought commitment.

The day itself was perfect. Sunny, a warm breeze dispelling some of the heavy London air, my dearest love at my side, our arms linked as we ambled companionably in the direction of the park.

Watson, for all that he was as yet tired and looking somewhat strained, seemed to me to glow with virility. I wanted nothing more than to rush him back to our rooms and explore our new intimacy further, but we both had obligations to fill.

We lost track of the time even so, I perhaps, somewhat more intentionally than my beloved. But it was a harmless subterfuge, the distraction and dallying I engaged upon, and I have to think he gained benefit from having his mind removed from the press of his responsibilities and duties.

We had just turned back at the edge of the park and begun our stroll back toward Mycroft’s apartments, when Watson pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and cursed softly.

“My dearest, I’m going to be late for my appointment!” he said with dismay.  “Well, there is no help for it, I must see you back to the house, then I can hail a cab.  I can send word ahead that my appointment should wait for me.”

“Nonsense, Watson!”  I exclaimed. “I am fully capable of making my own way back such a trifling distance! Let’s hail you a cab and get you on your way…”

“Holmes, I cannot leave you alone in the middle of the street, you are not yet well…” Watson objected, sweetly concerned, his regard of me so loving that I very nearly capitulated my entire plan.

“Then we will each hail a cab, you to go to Cavendish Place, and I back to Mycroft’s apartments.” I patted my pockets, my cab whistle had been left behind at Baker Street some months before, as I knew full well.  Before Watson could reach for his, I hailed a young street Arab. “Boy!  A shilling for you if you hail two cabs!  Be quick!”

He was a fairly recent recruit to the ranks of the Irregulars, brought on to replace young Smithers who had been placed so many months before as sentinel to Watson’s new home. My dearest would never have met him directly, and by design he had been kept back from the gathering at the train station. 

Watson, of course, would see me handed into the first cab before he climbed into his own. I acquiesced, delaying my departure mere moments as I both watched my dearest climb into his conveyance, and leaned forward to press the promised payment into my Irregular’s hand—a sovereign, not a shilling, for a job well done.

“Beside you on the seat, Mr ‘Olmes.  The packet you asked for!”  The lad whispered _sotto voce_.

I sketched my young lieutenant a small salute and he scampered away.  Watson’s cab lingered, waiting for my own to begin its journey. I tipped my hat as my hansom passed his, grinning broadly.

Watson graced me with a beatific smile of his own and settled back against the seat, gesturing his driver onward.

I patted the packet that even now was under my hand, waiting until I was well underway before picking it up and slipping it into my clothing beneath my shirts, cradled next to my body.

My mission was accomplished, and no one would be the wiser. I happily returned to Pall Mall, intrigued by what information I would find within the bulging bundle, once I gained the privacy of my room.

**

I was kept from immediately perusing the contents of my prize. No sooner had the cabbie dropped me off at Mycroft’s doorway, than his butler was greeting me and pulling me into the dining room for luncheon. I was fussed over and plied with food and drink for the better part of an hour by the majority of my brother’s staff, so many of which I had never encountered in the same room before.

I really must sit my brother down and very firmly issue an order to cease and desist.  If he expected me to remain his guest for any length of time —forthcoming expedition to Chichester notwithstanding, since he would not accompanying us – he must learn that there were boundaries to my patience.

After extracting myself from the tender mercies of my sibling’s employees, I made for my bedroom, for once desirous of achieving its peace and privacy. I had lost my good humor of the morning to overfeeding and coddling at noon; I set about making myself comfortable before withdrawing my packet of intelligence from my clothing.

I opened the window through which I had interrogated Smithers only the day before, poured myself a glass of water and sat at the writing table next to the sash, enjoying once again the refreshing breeze that had so enlivened my walk with Watson.

I removed the string which bound the packet together, removed the outer layers of protection—which even included oilcloth, should the parcel in its changing of many hands have run afoul of a stray mud puddle—and set them aside. I would build a fire in the fireplace to destroy all these items and the contents of the package itself, after perusing them.

I was momentarily distracted from my task by the sounds of a loud knocking at street level. My room was somewhat over from the entrance to Mycroft’s rooms, and with the window thus thrown open, I could hear the conversation that followed the importunate knock.

It was a knock with fists, not the ornate brass implement designed for that use.  Were Mycroft in residence at the moment, that alone would be enough for him to dispatch his butler to remove the impertinent interlopers from his stoop.

I leafed through the contents of the parcel: inquest reportage from the London Times, as well as transcribed copies of police reports and a facsimile of the inquest report itself. 

“We know he is living here, we have gotten this direction from the cart man who has delivered his clothing and medical instruments to this address!”

 A loud, angry voice rose above the hubbub of the street, distracting me momentarily.  Never taking my eyes from the papers before me, I partitioned my attention, allowing my hearing to track the conversation from below even as I read through my purloined reports.

The disdainful tones of Mycroft’s butler rang through the air. “You may NOT set foot inside this house! Please leave!”

“We’ve every right to be here. He was married to our daughter, and it is as much our business as yours to know why he’s abandoned his home and proper mourning to take up residence here!”

I paused in my reading. The Morstans? Here? Curiosity to clap eyes on the ill bred louts who had been Mary’s parents warred with my need to continue my perusal of the documents before me. However, I could hear footmen being dispatched to fetch both my brother and Watson via the back staircase and rear door, my time to read uninterrupted would be short. 

“You may lurk about the street, I cannot stop you! But you will not enter!  The master of the house has been sent for, and he will deal with you!” The butler challenged again, Mr. Morstan must be pushing at the door to bring that vocal volume from Mycroft’s normally soft spoken and very properly mannered manservant.

The door was slammed, seeming to shake the very building to its foundations.

The Morstans continued to mutter and rant.

“He’s trying to hide something! I tell you! I petitioned the Coroner to continue the investigation, not close it prematurely!”

I pulled the inquest report from the stack, scanning through the formal jargon that marked all such documents to reach the meat of the matter, the testimony of the physician, whose identity I already knew, Watson’s worthy colleague, Dr. Anstruther.

“Private patient he has here, so the word is, how rich he must be if Watson can remove himself from England for the care of the man!”  Mrs. Morstan was possessed of a particularly nasal voice it pained my ears to note.

Ah, there it was…

_The deceased came to her death as the result of _ _eccyesis implanted on the interstitial ostia or boundary of the fallopian tube, resulting in massive hemorrhage due to breach of the Sampson artery.  The pregnancy had evidenced none of the usual symptoms, the deceased, according to testimony presented by house servants, her personal physician and her own parents was not aware of her condition. Her husband, a medical doctor,  away on the Continent caring for a critically ill private patient, testified that in no communication received from his wife, did he find any hint that the usual precursors of pregnancy had been notedby her.  Her death due to catastrophic blood loss occurred in her sleep.  The finding of the inquest is that the death was natural and unpreventable…_ __

"If he had been around, he could have intervened, and then both she and the baby would have lived!" The angry voice rose again, counterpoint to the horrific words that were only now penetrating my consciousness.

My world turned slowly and inexorably to ice, crystalline prisms growing with exponential speed in my veins. My heart juddered in my chest.

The air bled out from my lungs, I could not inhale an adequate volume of replacement oxygen to fill them again.

Somehow, I was on my feet, staggering across the room, throwing open the door to the wardrobe. I fumbled for Watson’s medical bag, withdrawing it awkwardly from where I had seen him stow it after each temperature taking and auscultation of my lungs and heart.

I tore into the attaché, fumbling for the vials I knew were inside, grasping after the hypodermic, clutching at the fine scalpel, numb fingers unable to pluck it from its protective sheath.

_Mary had been with child._

She died as a complication of _unattended_ pregnancy.

My beloved Watson had been not only a husband to a good and faithful woman, but he would have been father to a child.

_A child!_

A tiny life created in love by himself and his wife, a miniature version of himself doubtless… golden haired, blue eyed…

…both mother and child now lost to him because when he might have been at home, noting those subtle symptoms that herald the forthcoming of a blessed event and giving his Mary the care and attention that were her right as his beloved wife, he was hundreds of miles away.

Forcing back to life a misbegotten millstone –a lump of barely human flesh, a useless, unwanted, unloveable waste of bone and sinew…

_No!_

Distantly I heard the howling of a dog—Gladstone! — a sympathetic keening in response to the hideous vocalizations of some horribly tortured and wounded thing, better put out of its misery.

I did not recognize that awful noise as my own voice.

I could not open the vials… my clumsy hands would not obey. I could not remove the scalpel from its sheath, but I was able to free the hypodermic from its nested box.

It was not so fine a gauge as the implement I had so often used to bring on the blessed oblivion of morphia or the false energy of my seven percent solution, but it didn’t matter.

I raked the large bore needle across the flesh of my forearm, tearing at it viciously.

The pain was exquisite—I could still feel – something!!!

The blood that welled up in its wake was fiery red, fascinating in its particulars, how freely it flowed, the warmth of it as it flowed out and onto my skin.

I was entranced. My attention focusing down until I fancied I could see the blood in its component parts, as though viewed through the lens of a microscope.

I descended into the red depths, allowed myself to be carried away on the ruddy torrent…

The corporeal being who had been Sherlock Holmes, misbegotten and unmourned shattered and was no more.

 

**


	34. "Perseverance"

**Finality: **

**Chapter 33: Perseverance**

L.A. Adolf

 

_The miracle, or the power, that elevates  
the few is to be found in their perseverance  
under the promptings of a brave, determined spirit._

_Samuel Langhorne Clemens/Mark Twain_ __

 

_Watson:_

Our meeting had been delightful; Dr. Reginald Verner was everything that Mycroft he reported him as—level headed, practical, with a firm sense of his goals and desires. He was a very personable individual as well, with a forthright yet kind manner that I would very happily entrust even my most particular patient to without a qualm. I felt very comfortable in his taking over, not only my practice, but what had been the home of my tragic marriage.

I did find that my attention tended to focus less on what Verner was saying and more on his distinctive looks—quite different from those of his cousins— in particular his ears, which Holmes had often pointed out to me as distinctly heritable in their characteristics. I caught myself rather prosaically musing about the milk man and his hearing appendages…

I smiled to myself as-- for what might well be the last time, and with a sense of relief-- I locked the door to Cavendish Place.  

“DR. WATSON!!!” The shout when it came startled me. I recognized it as belonging to one of Mycroft’s servants, the same who had taken Gladstone for more than one walk when I was otherwise occupied. 

I did not expect to hear it here, and so edged with panic and alarm.

I spun and took in a pale, stricken face, a young man so out of breath with running and upset that he gasped for air and could not form words.

He did not have to. A premonition of a type I had never experienced overcame me, an agony beyond enduring erupted in the middle of my chest, and I heard a great rushing sound in my head. Yet even as these symptoms manifested themselves, I knew myself to be apart from them.

They were not my own.

** _Holmes!!_ **

I dashed past the footman, latching onto his arm and pulling him along, all else forgotten and unheeded in an unholy need to get back to Pall Mall.

 

** 

As I skidded to a halt at the doorway to the elder Holmes’s lodgings, I was not surprised to Mycroft lowering himself ponderously, but with his own particular brand of haste from a carriage at the kerb.

We could do no more than exchange an apprehensive look with each other before the air was rent with the ungodly sound of a dog howling, an inhuman cry of suffering and agony playing counterpoint to Gladstone’s mournful wail.

Mycroft and I looked at each other in abject terror for a scant moment, and then both of us charged forward through the door.  We were greeted by a hubbub of panicked activity, his normally well bred and placid staff rushing about in completely uncharacteristic turmoil.

And through it all, the howling and the ghastly keening wail.

I wasted no time in charging up the stairway that led to the sleeping quarters.  Mycroft’s butler was already in front of the room I shared with Sherlock, fumbling with his master key.  His normally unflappable mien was so altered that I would not have recognized him had our acquaintance been shorter than it was. Gladstone stood next to him, stout body trembling with anxiety as he yowled eerily.

I grabbed the butler by the arm and all but shoved him to one side.  Then, with all my strength and purpose, I kicked the door in, just as Mycroft lumbered up behind me, grunting his assent. We fairly tumbled into the room, I in the lead, Gladstone underfoot, the elder Holmes a solid presence instinctively blocking the doorway from any prying eyes that might peer in.

The scene that was revealed before me was a manifestation of every horror from every nightmare I’d ever had.

Holmes was curled, halt foetal, beneath an open window, looking appallingly pale and as frenzied as I had ever seen him. He was covered in blood, his eyes vacant, one of my large bore hypodermic needle clasped weapon-like in his hand. 

My medical bag lay on its side not far away,  contents strewn all over the floor, vials of medicaments positioned next to him, as though he’d been trying to open them to load the device he gripped in his hand.  More frighteningly, a scalpel lay within reach, its blade as yet shielded. I suppressed an involuntary shudder at the thought that he might have used that against himself.

His shirtsleeve had been ripped up and open and a large gash was visible on his inner forearm,  trailing upwards from wrist to crook of elbow. He withdrew the syringe from the uppermost edge of the defect, even as I watched, brandishing it before him.

There was nothing left about him of the brilliant mind and capable soul I knew him to be, he was instead transformed into  some wild animal, wounded and in agony, the unearthly cry that had carried out in the street dying in his throat as he looked at me—completely without recognition—or the barest hint of sanity.

What could have reduced him – he who was so happy and cheerful just hours before—to the revenant I saw before me, a banshee riven by the wind?

“T’was the Morstans Mr. Mycroft. I stopped them at the door, but they would not leave, creating a fuss on the doorstep. I sent for you and Dr. Watson immediately, and the police!  When the constable arrived from down the street they decided to leave, I told the officer you’d likely be pursuing charges against the pair of them.”

I was momentarily distracted from my stunned survey of Holmes by the flapping of papers on a table above where Holmes cowered, pages bestirred by the breeze coming through the open window; Mycroft’s attention was drawn to them too. He thanked his manservant and closed the door carefully.  As I made to cautiously approach my dearest, Mycroft edged guardedly toward the table and its contents as though afraid—and rightly – that his brother would find any sudden movement a threat.  

“Holmes…” I spoke very quietly, trying to force my strained voice into some semblance of its normal tone and cadence.  “It’s Watson, Holmes, your dearest Watson…do you see me Holmes?  Do you know who I am?”

The sound of my voice, ever and always a balm to the high strung nature of he who was my beloved, for once had the opposite effect.  As I watched horrified, my darling flinched and scurried backward, crablike, until he was plastered hard against the wall beneath the window frame.  His entire body quaked, whether from terror or shock or some combination, I could not begin to guess.

“Noooo!” Came a strangled, alien cry. “A-away…s-stay away!”

In the moment could not entertain the slightest  thought for what might be the cause of all this –the blood flowing freely from his forearm made me fear that he might have nicked an artery in his crazed attempt at  self mutilation and I must reach him to staunch the flow before it might prove fatal. 

I edged ever closer.

Beside me, Mycroft groaned, I could not spare him so much as a glance, however, keeping my full attention riveted on the unfortunate soul who was my dearest love instead.

“It’s all right Holmes, I am here, and I will protect you, whatever it is that has happened. It is John, your very own John Watson, who loves you.”  I crooned gently.

I was very close now, within inches of being able to touch my poor darling.  He still seemed not to see me, as though he’d been somehow struck blind, but the closeness of my body and the sound of my voice so near were all he needed to discern where—if not who —I was. To my utter horror he brandished the hypodermic at me, as though it were a knife.

“…who loves you _so_ much, Sherlock…who loves you beyond all reason…”  I continued to soothe, trying to keep the desperate worry that I felt out of my voice.

Gladstone moved forward at that moment, butting his head under my elbow as I squatted in front of his master.  He whined loudly, almost questioningly, and with the heartbreaking plaintiveness of the empathetic beast that he was.

The effect of that sound on Holmes was singular. He froze for a moment, cocking his head, listening, much in the manner of a fox hearing the distant baying of hounds, calculating what its next move should be.  It was the first inkling I had that reason—at however primitive a level— still dwelt behind the feral, empty eyes.

“D-dog… m-my dog…” Holmes breathed the words–question or statement I could not determine.

“Yes!” I pounced on the opening, “your dog Gladstone! He is here and worried for you–but he fears the needle, would you give it to me, for Gladdy’s sake?  Please?”

I used the pet name I’d once overheard him call our pet whilst I was still in residence at Baker Street. He’d thought me safely out of the lodgings, rather than having a quiet moment in my consulting room after dealing with a particularly trying patient. Holmes had ever been unremitting in not referring to our pet as anything other than “The Dog” or his  given name—or ignoring the poor beast altogether rather than demonstrating his very really affection for him. He would have been mortified to know I’d heard him use this charming diminutive, especially in that peculiarly paternal voice with which we humans are wont to address infants and pets.

“Gladdy?”  He repeated softly, and the dog surged forward joyful.  Holmes threw the needle aside and embraced our pet as though he were a drowning man and Gladstone a life saver; which, in that moment he most certainly seemed and that noble creature most assuredly was.

I used the distraction to pull Sherlock forward into my embrace. I braced myself against his renewed struggle at the touch, even as he continued to clasp the dog to his chest.

I clutched him in my arms, in the manner of a grizzly bear overpowering its prey, but with kinder intent, concentrating on stilling his violent movements.

I wrapped myself around him, far more closely than I ever had in all our interludes of loving intimacy, whispering calming and soothing nonsense in the perfect shell of his ear, rocking him side to side, backward and forward.

His stamina was soon destroyed by whatever mania had overtaken him and he slumped against me.  I pressed a kiss to the side of his head, sending a prayer of thanksgiving heavenward. 

I could not spare even a moment-- my love lay bleeding!  I reached for his arm and inspected his wound with one hand, somehow freeing a handkerchief from my pocket with the other.  With arms yet around him I ministered to his hurt.

It was not so very deep, and the blood seemed to come from surface vessels and capillaries. I bound the arm with the handkerchief as an emergency measure. He might need stitches given the length and jaggedness of the cut, but that would have to wait.  I looked up, searching for Mycroft.

Holmes’s sibling was standing by the table looking down upon his brother, his face grey and stricken. In his hand he clutched a bundle of papers. He held them out at my questioning, if somewhat impatient glance.

“You wife’s inquest report, amongst other items of related information. He must have arranged somehow to have them smuggled to him.” Mycroft shook his head.  “I said the knowledge would destroy him, Watson. Now it has.”

I looked up at my beloved’s brother, fire in my eyes and determination in my soul.

“NO!  _Not_ if I have _anything_ to say about it!” I hissed, and then turned my attention to beginning the process of putting my beloved back together, piece by piece.

**

 

_Mycroft:_

If I live to be one hundred, I will never forget the horrific scene in that room, nor blot from my memory the wretched state to which my brother was reduced by the simple discovery of the true circumstances of Mary Watson’s death.

Even in my most fevered and panicked imaginings, I had never envisioned any scenario remotely like the reality that faced me in that quiet room on that blazingly sunny summer day.

I wanted to turn and run from the sight of him cowering on the floor, reduced to a state of utter helplessness and madness, but I could not. He was my baby brother, and I loved him beyond sense or self preservation.

For the longest time Watson sat with Sherlock on the floor, holding him fast within the circle of his strong arms.  The doctor rocked him to and fro, murmuring sweet words of comfort, reassurance and love, until at last, my brother relaxed in his arms, in some state between consciousness and insensibility

A lesser man might have turned away in revulsion, left the premises never to return. It was a measure of the man that John Hamish Watson was that he never once evinced any emotion toward the poor destroyed creature that had been my brother, which was not loving, kind and sympathetic.

Once Sherlock had gone limp in his arms, Watson looked up at me.  “Help me get him up on the bed. Then please, call for hot water, clean cloths and towels.  There is a box in the foyer yet, with medical equipment and supplies, have it brought up to me immediately.”

Between us we lifted my brother to the bed, dog and all, the forbearing beast quiescent in the grip of my brother’s arms.  Seeing him laid out, insensate, I forced myself away to hurry  to the door. My manservant, ever sagacious and loyal, stood waiting command on the other side.  I made every request Watson had made of me reality in the next few moments.

When I turned back to the bed, Watson was removing his makeshift bandage from Sherlock’s forearm, inspecting the wound more carefully.  Gladstone lay with his  great head on my brother’s chest, expressive canine eyes fixed on the vacant face that stared upwards at the ceiling, which was no longer cognizant of anything around him.

The water, toweling and instruments arrived in short order, delivered in a business-like fashion by two foot men, who diligently went about their task as though simply waiting on any guest taken by indisposition. I was never more grateful for the discretion and loyalty of my staff as I was that day.

Watson cleaned the wound with brisk efficiency, all the while talking to Sherlock in a calm and quiet voice. Only two areas were deemed deep enough to require stitches, which Watson administered with a gentle competence. The most disturbing thing was the fact that my brother gave no sign that he felt the bite of the needle as it drew the sutures through his flesh.

The most immediate need seen to, Watson retrieved his bag and his stethoscope from the pocket of his jacket. He thenset about giving Sherlock a quick but thorough examination.

Auscultation of heart and lungs was conducted in silence. As I looked on, he gauged my brother’s pulse, checked the body he’d stripped of almost all clothing to search for further marks of trauma.  He looked deeply  into the vacant eyes, prodded clammy flesh.

“He did not ingest any of the drugs from my bag, I’m certain of that.  His fever is back, but I do not think that impacts –except peripherally– his current condition. He’s in a state of profound shock, almost catatonia.

“His heartbeat is greatly accelerated. If you would hand me that small case from within the box?”  Watson spoke at long last.

I hurried to retrieve what turned out to be a case of syringes. Watson withdrew one of them, and grasping a vial, prepared the hypodermic for an injection.

Remembering a night of terror in Switzerland, I gasped aloud.

“Watson! Is that necessary?” I fairly blurted out the objection.

“It's to calm him down, Mycroft. His heart is beating far too fast, if we do not get that under control, I’m afraid it might fail him or result in stroke.  Trust me; I do know his tolerance levels."

“Not morphia?”  I persisted, panicked. “In Switzerland, after you left, the doctor from the hospital injected him with morphia. He quit breathing, Watson. I had to resort to physical violence to rouse him.”

Doctor Watson went utterly still, the syringe drawing from the vial suspended, action incomplete, in his hands. “I beg your pardon?”

A pair of very shocked blue eyes lanced suddenly in my direction.

"We were all exhausted, Sherlock most of all. When the doctor advised morphia to allow him respite...I agreed.”  I confessed, abashed.

Watson turned his face away from me, setting the syringe and vial carefully  aside, then running a hand over his face.  "Tell me, _exactly_, what happened!"

The story of that awful night poured out of me, culminating in the shameful means I undertook to bring my brother back. I had never struck my brother in all our lives – our father had claimed that privilege as his own special amusement – and I would never forgive myself for having to employ that very means even on the side of the angels.

“…forgive me, Doctor. I have no excuse for failing to mention this before now, other than that it was a one incident amongst many and so horrifying to my sensibilities that I seem to have quite repressed it until now.”

"All right, Mycroft, thank you. I understand." Watson said calmly, all trace of the frustration and anger he must certainly have felt for me in that moment absent from his voice. “What else occurred, Mycroft? What else happened that has not been mentioned?"

Uncharacteristically, words failed me in that moment. Watson turned his head to look at me once more. "I am not angry with you, but I must know."

“Nothing, John. I swear it. Nothing more. You know all else.”  I admitted, ashamed.

“All right. Thank you, Mycroft. I think under the circumstances we shall leave the morphine put and use something else. Laudanum, I think.”  Watson reached for another vial and another syringe and prepared the laudanum for injection.

We sat in silence for several minutes, watching as finally, Sherlock seemed to relax under the drug’s influence, his staring eyes finally closing.

“I shall sit with him, so there will be no repetition of past events,” Watson said after some moments, his eyes never leaving my brother’s face.

I was at a loss for what to say or do. I wanted to stay with Sherlock, offer whatever aid I could, but part of me desired to go into another room and lose myself in a decanter of my best brandy.

“He is lost to us, Watson. As surely as if he had ceased to breathe back in Leukerbad and I had not been able to rouse him.”  I said morosely.

John Watson never left my brother’s side but something of the spirit of the man loomed up and over me—so strong was his rejection of my words.

“He will _never_ be lost to _me_, Mycroft. I will not _allow_ him to be. I will follow him down to death’s door if I must, but he will not be gone from me. Not now, not  after all we’ve been through.  He needs rest and quiet and the chance to regain himself, after this shock.  If it takes the rest of my life, I will convince him of his worthiness and restore him to the life and work that is as yet his destiny.”

I wanted to weep at the conviction in those words, to grasp onto them and pull myself to safety in the midst of this maelstrom of emotion I was so ill equipped to bear.

“I need the use of your estate in Chichester, and a secure and private means to convey him there. If you would be so kind as to arrange everything, I will forever be in your debt” Watson continued.

I stood, moving across the room to stand at the doctor’s side. I laid a hand on one stalwart shoulder and squeezed gently. “If you can work the miracle of bringing my brother back to us, whole and healed, it is _I _who will forever be in _your_ debt, John.”

Our eyes met then, and my soul soared heavenward at the utter conviction and boundless faith I read in those careworn features.

I once again began to believe in miracles.

**


	35. "Interlude Nocturne"

**Finality:****  
**Chapter 33A: Perseverance: Interlude nocturne**  
**  
L.A. Adolf

_Interlude: A piece of instrumental music played between scenes in a play or opera. Nocturne: A musical composition that has a romantic or dreamy character with nocturnal associations._ 

  


_Watson:_

I sat by Holmes’s bedside for hours, monitoring his breathing, periodically checking his pulse and heart rate.

The laudanum had done its work, his heart beat once again in regular rhythm, his body no longer trembled, and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully if not as deeply as I might have liked, but as his fever had spiked yet again, that was to be expected.

We had come so far, only to have my beloved’s insatiable curiosity prove his undoing.

For many hours I was despondent, hopeless at the thought of how impossible the task I had set before myself truly was. I did not know how to undo the damage done, what my first step should be, how I could possibly reach my dearest in whatever dark corner of his mind he had retreated.

The hour grew late, and I –already done in by the normal course of events—craved my own rest. Holmes’s condition would seem to indicate that I should take my ease elsewhere, but I could not – would not – leave him.  Finally, I did what I had done every night of our residence at Pall Mall, changed into my night clothes and crawled into the bed beside my dearest.

He did not respond of course, nor did I expect him to. Gladstone still snuggled up close to him, on the far side of the bed; I determined to do the same on the nearer side – if only to comfort myself with his proximity. 

I do not know where the inspiration came from, but I felt the rightness of it even as I acted on its impulse.

I gathered Holmes close, one arm about his shoulders, and drew his head to my chest.  Then, as had been my habit these last several nights, I picked up the Barrett-Browning, and began to read aloud.

“How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace.  
I love thee to the level of every day’s  
most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I paused, stroking my hand through the wild hair, smoothing and soothing, savoring the small gusts of exhaled air that were the hallmark of my darling’s peaceful breathing. 

Was it the product of my imagination that he seemed more relaxed at my continued touch, muscles that had been bunched and tight in unfathomable tension loosening?  It could be the laudanum, and probably was, but I liked to think that my proximity and touch helped as well. Surely it was a harmless conceit.

 I moved my hand down his back, tracing the ridge of his spine, and rubbed in calming circles. Shifting my attention back to the volume held in my free hand, I resumed reading aloud:

“I love thee freely, as men strive  
for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn  
from Praise. I love thee with the passion put  
to use In my old griefs, and with my  
childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed  
to lose With my lost saints, — I love thee  
with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life I —  
and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

 

I stopped there, setting the book aside.

“There is no where you can go, my beloved, where I will not follow,” I spoke softly, my head bent so that I might direct my words more directly into the pinna of his exposed ear, thereby claiming the input of both aural appendages for my heartfelt message.

 “I am beside you, waiting until you find your strength and will to return to the world. And if you do not find those things soon-- if they are too far beyond your reach, I offer all you need of mine own.” 

It might have been an effect of the fever that was still in evidence, I do not know, but Holmes moaned slightly and gave a small toss of his head, then burrowed more closely against me.  I lay a calming hand to the side of his face, stroking his cheek.

I hummed to him well into the watches of the night, singing whatever tune wandered into my head, from nursery tunes to musical hall numbers, to Bocchierini’s “La Musica Notturna delle strada di Madrird, opus 30”, the latter a piece he had played for me so often on his Stradivarius in the early days of our acquaintance, I a recovering invalided soldier returned from the Afghan War.  I remembered the comfort I took from his playing, and not for the first time, regretted that I was master of no instrument of my own.

For Holmes, I would learn to play if the opportunity should ever present itself—but I could work no such tuneful miracle tonight. Instead I must find within myself the resources I would need to reach my dearest Holmes and draw him out to live again.

**


	36. "in Hell's despair"

**Finality:**

**Chapter 34: “…in Hell’s despair” **

By Kelly Frankenfield

 

_Love seeketh not itself to please  
Nor for itself hath any care,  
But for another gives its ease,  
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”_

_William Blake, The Clod and the Pebble. Stanza 1_

_Mycroft:_

My brother’s room was very quiet when I entered early the next morning, though neither man was asleep. Rather, Doctor Watson was curled against Sherlock’s prone form on the bed, whispering quietly to him in a voice too low to distinguish words. Sherlock had his eyes closed, though it was apparent from his breathing that he was not asleep.

The bandage on his arm was very white against his skin. 

“How is he this morning?” I asked softly, not wishing to intrude yet having to put my mind at ease before I could bring myself to embark on my errands. Train tickets had to be arranged, people informed of my continued absence, and one or two minor details pertaining to the Morstans had to be dealt with. 

 But my brother came first. 

“He is resting,” Watson replied delicately, and unconsciously brushed a hand across Sherlock’s head, gauging his temperature and assuring him of his presence. 

There were dark circles under the good doctor’s eyes. Wrinkles on his forehead that had not been there before, and a pallor to his skin which bespoke too much time indoors. The escape to Chichester was something they both were in need of. 

“I will be stepping out for a few hours, John. Should you need anything, or his-his status change, you have but to tell Carlile and he will make certain I am summoned at once.” It was not often that I faltered in my speech, but where my brother was concerned, things were seldom the norm. “Is there anything you require?”

“No,” Watson assured, smiling at me weakly, though the effort was appreciated. “We’re fine.”

“Very well.” I made my way over to the two of them and bent down to run a hand through Sherlock’s still unnaturally short hair. 

His eyes opened, though there was very little sense behind them. It was all I could do to maintain my calm façade at such a disturbing sight. Last night I may have coddled him, spoken to him as I would a child. But Watson’s approach seemed to have gained results that treating my brother gingerly had not. 

“I’m leaving for a bit, Sherlock. Do try not to disturb the household too much in my absence.” 

There was no response, and I had not truly expected one. Still, my heart lurched within my chest, and I hastily turned to leave the room.

The last thing I heard was Watson calling Sherlock back to the bed, though I had not the strength to turn and see what had intrigued my brother enough to have him leave his repose.

 _Sherlock Holmes:_

I woke, but only distantly was I aware that I was awake. I could hear Watson talking to me, though the words did not register. I could hear the sounds of the street, though they held no meaning. I saw the room around me, but if asked, I could not describe it. I was living distantly, as though experiencing the world as a shadow. Yes, I was shadow.  Perhaps if the light shined bright enough, I would vanish. 

Watson's voice was deep and warm, a nice hum that filled the empty spaces in my mind. There was something.... something I should remember. But all I could think was how nice it felt, being so ephemeral. If I looked upon my reflection, would I see myself, or a mist? A vapor, waiting to be dispelled by a strong breath.

I blew air through my lips, wondering if I could disperse myself. What had I been wondering before?  Something…

Watson was speaking again, so I closed my eyes to better feel the words as they covered my skin. Gossamer threads that tickled and itched. I wondered what color they would be if I opened my eyes.

Mycroft entered the room. 

His voice was not so deep and warm, more a blue than a deep brown, not like Watson’s. It was very pleasant, though, to feel his presence.  His shadow is much larger than mine. I could disappear entirely if I wished; I just had to move to stand beside him. A double shadow is possible, I have found, but I was but a faint outline, and Mycroft was always ever so much more than me. I would just need a stronger light. 

I opened my eyes, which I had forgotten I possessed, and gazed longingly at the window, so wonderfully brilliant. If I could just walk into that light… Just reach out... No, the warm voice does not like that.

Mycroft is leaving, and Watson must like my shadow self. Yes. I think I understand, though my thoughts skitter like so many mice. He is so light, so wonderfully brilliant... He needs a shadow to stand beside him.  A man is not complete without a shadow. 

_Mycroft:_            

Arranging the passage by private train was easy.

My services were too much in need, and those I worked with too desperate and fearful of losing my intellect, that every accommodation was being made to ensure my swift return. Granted, I would still be working from Chichester, but those in power always felt a bit more assured of themselves when they could see the person behind the answers down the hall from them.

A quick telegram to the Estate was forewarning enough for the staff there. They were used to my ways, and that of Sherlock, though he seldom visited. Rooms would be prepared and meals planned by the time or our arrival, and my brother and his love would be free from the burdens of society for as long as they chose to be. Any servant who would not tolerate their relationship had already been weeded out long ago.

I refused to let my mind linger on other possibilities, and instead focused on the next task at hand.

Constable Clark was surprised to see me, and though I did my best to keep my expression neutral as he invited me in, I fear the stress of the past day had been imprinted upon me too strongly.

“What’s happened?” he asked softly as soon as I was ushered into his study, a small room that smelled heavily of tobacco. I had never been in the room before, and besides gaining the fact that the good constable had a fondness for Poe and German authors, spent most of his evenings sitting behind his desk and seldom had company, I did not linger on the contents of the room.

“My brother, in his infinite stubbornness, has found out the cause of Mrs. Watson’s death,” I said bluntly, unable to hide the grimace which crossed my face. “His reaction was much as we feared.”

“Lord,” Clarky breathed, running a hand over his hair before rubbing it against his mustache. “What can I do, Sir?”

“He has calmed down considerably since last night, but I fear the good doctor is exhausted and needs a respite. I would normally never ask this of you, after just returning you to your family -”

“I am here to serve, Sir,” Clarky interrupted, and this time I did not try to stop the smile which tugged my lips. It felt very foreign to my face, and did not last long, but I’m certain the constable understood my appreciation. 

“I had hoped you would be able to play for my brother, to help sooth his mind, while Dr. Watson gets some rest. A few hours should be sufficient,” I added, for I could hear the sound of little feet scampering around outside the door, and knew that, no matter how willing to be of help the other man was, it was no more fair to his family to drag him away so soon as it was to him.

“I will head over there now, Sir,” Clarky assured, and paused as he made his way to open the door, his hand lingering hesitantly on my shoulder. “How did it happen?”

I was very careful to keep my face expressionless. Indeed, I had been endeavoring to maintain a tight rein over my emotions since this all began. For once I let them go….

“The Morstans paid a visit to my home yesterday, a visit which coincided with him receiving a packet of information about Mrs. Watson’s death. From what I can gather, had he not had the packet, their overheard conversation would have informed him anyway.” My voice only shook a little bit. I was very proud of myself. 

“Were they -” Clarky began, but I cut him off before he could finish. 

“I will take care of them, Constable.” 

There must have been something in my voice, though I could not figure out what. My brother and I were both superb actors when we wished to be, but I could tell Clarky could see through me. Perhaps it had been everything we had been through which gave him this insight. Or perhaps he was thinking back to his own family, and what he would do should our circumstances be reversed. 

As it was, he nodded once, his lips a grim line as he escorted me out. 

Placing my hat upon my head, I called a carriage and gave the driver the address to the Morstan residence. 

**

The Morstans were in deep mourning. Their house was bedecked with the black of it, a swath of deep color among more vibrant homes. By society’s standards, they were not to be disturbed until such a time as they deemed proper. 

They had forfeited that right when they came to my house. Perhaps not in the eyes of their neighbors, but certainly in mine. I felt no compunction, then, when I knocked loudly upon their door. 

A black clad servant answered, frowning furiously at my disturbance. 

“I’m sorry, Sir, but the family is not receiving visitors at this time,” the woman said firmly, glaring at me through narrow eyes. “If you would like to leave your card -”

“I am here to see Mr. and Mrs. Morstan,” I interrupted. I was not normally inclined to rudeness, but I was certain under the circumstances I was to be forgiven. “You can either let me in, or I can call upon the constabulary to force the door in. I’m certain they would have no problem doing so should I wish to press charges for yesterday’s transgressions.”

The woman’s eyes were wide, now, and appropriately filled with both fear and hatred of me. A proper servant, she knew exactly the situation I spoke of. Too bad for her, her employers were horrid in their grief. 

“I shall let them know you have come to call,” she said softly, bobbing once as she stepped aside to let me in. I removed my hat, though did not proffer it to her. I was not intending to stay very long. 

I was led into a quiet sitting room, the furniture and windows draped in black. When I heard angry footsteps behind I did not turn, instead taking in the tiny details which only my brother and I seemed capable of observing. 

Interesting. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Morstan demanded a moment before he appeared, his wife close on his heels.

Their black attire was not rich, but neither was it the garment worn by the lower class. I could tell the dress had been sewn hastily by the row of off center stitches up the right sleeve, and Mrs. Morstan was already developing an eye infection from the crepe veil.   

 She was smaller than I had thought, seemed shrunken compared to her husband, a man almost of my own width. Both had dark circles under their eyes. For a moment only I allowed myself to feel pity for them. 

“I am the man whose house you tried to force your way into yesterday,” I said softly.

Oh, yes. I had learned long ago the power of a soft voice. My father had used it to his advantage often, and it was a lesson neither Sherlock nor myself would ever forget. Both of us knew full well the danger in a cold fury, compared to the fiery rage of a temper.

“We had business with Dr. Watson, Sir,” Mr. Morstan said stiffly, clutching his wife’s hand. “We meant no offence to you, but he -”

“He was not even at the house when you attempted to gain entry, and even if he had been, you would not have been permitted to speak with him. As it is, your actions have caused my brother to have a serious relapse, one he may not recover from.”  For the first time I allowed a bit of the fury I was feeling to show in my face, and was gratified when both took a step back. 

“He should be in mourning, not taking care of patients!” Mrs. Morstan cried, covering her mouth with a shaking hand. “Your brother may be ill, but our daughter and grandchild have been lost to us!”

“Madam, your daughter and the child she carried would have been lost regardless,” I declared. It was a cruel thing to say, but I was not in a charitable mood now. “I read the autopsy report, and fully understand the gravitas of what happened. The child would not have lived regardless if the pregnancy had been caught, and your daughter’s life had a very slim chance of being spared. You would do well to remember that before taking out unfounded accusations against a good and wise man.”

I let my words sink in, ignoring the tears that sprung into their eyes and the rage in Mr. Morstan’s. I would not permit them to cause any more trouble. 

“Let me make myself very clear,” I continued before either one could open their mouth. “If you persist in causing trouble for Dr. Watson, or if I hear of you anywhere near my house again, I shall make certain that both of you are quite ruined for the rest of your lives. I will expose every secret, every shame, every gambling debt and drunken folly. I will make certain your names are persona non grata in all of England, until you will have no recourse but to leave the country. I will destroy you.”

It was a threat I did not make lightly. I knew the power I held within my hands on a daily basis. If I so wished, I could have their assets frozen, their bank accounts closed, their house sold beneath them. If I truly wished them gone, they would no longer exist. 

But I am not without a heart, much as my brother may disagree at times. We neither of us show our emotions lightly, but they do exist. I allowed my face to soften slightly. 

“I tell you this once, so you know whom you stand against. I am not without empathy,” I added, as more tears fell from reddened eyes and cheeks flushed darkly.  
“You have lost a child and the possibility of a grandchild, a sorrow I will never know nor fully understand. But your grief shall not excuse you again, should you continue on the course you have been following. So I say again. Leave. Dr. Watson. Alone.”

Every bit of my fury was finally unleashed, until they could see the seriousness of their actions and the retribution which would fall upon their heads if they persisted. I could feel my cheeks flush, my heart quicken, and I drew a deep breath as I continued. 

"Mourn for your child. She was a good woman who passed too soon.  Think of the shame you would bring upon her memory if you do not desist. I do not make threats lightly, I assure you.”

I waited until they dropped their eyes, their bodies tight with rage and sorrow, and then placed my hat back upon my head. 

“I will take my leave now. My condolences for your loss. Please believe me when I say I do not wish to bring my might down upon you. But should you leave me no choice…” I let the sentence trail off. 

Mr. Morstan nodded once, angrily, and I took my leave, bypassing the trembling maid in the hall and letting myself out. I paused for a moment upon the steps, breathing deeply as I reigned in my fury once more, allowing the cool logic of the world around me to settle firmly back in place.

My brother needed me now. Later, when all this had passed and was but a memory, I would allow the tears to flow and the rage to run its course. Now, though, I had packing and work arrangements to make.  

**


	37. "whispers of the gods..."

**Finality**

**Chapter 35: “whispers of the gods…”**

 

 By L.A. Adolf

_ _Let us be silent, that we may hear the whispers of the gods_ _ _.  
-Ralph Waldo Emerson_

 

 

_Watson:_

Holmes’s reaction to Mycroft had both charmed and puzzled me.

In response to his sibling’s admonishment not to upset the household, —precisely the type of farewell that had become the norm for them here in this altered living arrangement—Holmes had reacted singularly, and in such a way that gave me both hope and concern.

Gone from my beloved’s eyes was the vacant stare of the night before, but the gaze that he fixed upon Mycroft yet lacked its usual mixture of intelligence and masterfully disguised fondness. It was instead the regard of someone plucked from their home and their mother tongue, installed in a foreign land and a language they did not speak or understand. Sherlock seemed to recognize us both, and accepted our presence as a matter of course, but to not understand what we were saying or doing. 

As Mycroft, overcome by strong emotions at his brother’s condition, though stoically trying to hide the fact, turned away from the bed walking slowly across the room, Holmes at first extended his uninjured arm towards his brother, as if wanting to touch but having misjudged the distance to be able to do so. As Mycroft lumbered toward the door, Holmes had scrambled up and off the bed, stalking a few feet behind his sibling, not unlike the childish game I remembered playing so long ago, where one walked closely behind a companion, stepping onto their shadow as though to pin it to the ground.

It was fascinating to watch, but I had the sudden impression that if I did not call my darling back that he would continue to follow Mycroft thus, with no regard to his state of undress, out into the street and along on his brother’s errands.

“Come back to bed, Sherlock,” I called softly.

  
Mycroft heard me, I could tell by the slight pause in his step, but no matter how curious he might have been about my odd statement, he did not turn to investigate.

Holmes reacted–I was afraid for a moment that he would not–and turned, but instead of following the sound of my voice, he spun his strange regard to the window through which the morning sunlight was streaming.  He seemed both fascinated and drawn to the light; his hand reaching out toward the golden rays, his expression longing and beatific.  I had the horrible premonition that he intended to lose himself in it—and remembering the destructive actions of yesterday—I felt that he might take it into mind to leap out the window.

“No Holmes. Come back to me, dear boy, I need you here beside me.”

He turned to look at me then, the large brown eyes regarding me with a mixture of confusion and understanding that was heartrending to see where before had existed keen intelligence and dry wit.

Wraithlike, he moved back to the bed, clambered up upon it and plastered himself to my side.

He had taken me literally, when I had said I needed him beside me, his action giving me some hope that my words were getting through to him on some level. 

I tested my theory a short span of time later. I rose, and Holmes did likewise, following my example as I removed to the water closet to wash and dress. He watched me intently as I shaved and made as though to follow suit himself. I was not sanguine about him handling a straight edge razor, but pressed into his hand the safety razor we had procured for his use in Switzerland, when he’d been desirous of shaving himself but lacked the steadiness of hand to do so.

He carried through with the activity competently, although his regard of himself in the mirror was distinctly odd at first. He was not unlike a cat or other small animal encountering its reflection for the first time, wary and chary, then curious. He seemed to reason out after that initial bemusement, that actions he took himself his counterpart followed, save in reverse.  He set about shaving with businesslike efficiency.

I praised him warmly at his success, both in shaving and dressing himself, although rightly a man of his age should require neither. There was something childlike or feral about my beloved’s behavior that had me instinctively responding _in loco parentis_.

Heartened by this success, I called for breakfast for both of us, which we took—as had been our recent habit—around the writing table by the window. Holmes had lost his fascination for the light streaming through it by this point, and applied himself to his meal after watching my example for a moment or two.

The breakfast dishes had no sooner been cleared away than there came a light rapping on the bedroom door. I moved to answer it, sensing rather than seeing Holmes moving stealthily behind me, playing at being my shadow.

I was both taken aback and heartened to see Clark on the other side of the door once I opened it.  His open, honest face wore an expression of concern and empathy.

“Mr. Mycroft came by and told me what had happened,” He said in a low voice.  “I came as soon as I could. Mr. Holmes thought a bit of violin music might be soothing to Mr. Sherlock, so I’ve brought my instrument.”

It was all I could do to restrain myself from gathering Clarky into an embrace. I reached out to squeeze his shoulder in heartfelt gratitude instead.

“Thank you, Clarky!  I’m sure Holmes would be delighted to listen to your progress in your mastery of the instrument. Please do come in and play for us!”

 

_Clark:  _

It was painful to step into that room, to see how worn and worried Doctor Watson was yet again, to see the face of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my teacher in so many matters of music and detection, the man I admired most in this world, with the expression of a lost wounded and wild animal.

A part of me was glad there was a small service I could provide that would bring comfort to these two men, but a part of me wished that I might have accompanied Mr. Mycroft to give the Morstans more than a small piece of my mind.

I like to think that Mr. Sherlock recognized me and was happy to see me. While his mien lacked the animation and intelligence I so associated with him, he did not regard me with anything other than welcome and a kind of detached curiosity.

He brought to mind a small child we at the Yard had once rescued from a procurer, a poor mite who had never been treated any better than a shackled mongrel.

That child had not responded at all well to pity and coddling, but had thrived being treated as though nothing at all were odd or strange about it or its circumstance. I had the inspiration to treat Mr. Holmes with the same sense of normalcy.

I greeted Mr. Holmes as I had every morning whilst we’d been in Switzerland, even though this time there was no responding salutation. I then sat myself down, took the violin from its case and brought it up to my shoulder to play.

As the first note rose from where the bow touched the strings, Sherlock Holmes seated himself at my feet, his attention riveted on the instrument.

In that moment, I determined to play the very best I could for him, had the Queen herself been seated before me, I could not have put more sincere effort into the music I made that morning.

Mr. Holmes seemed entranced, his hands rising in the air, as though the notes of music were living things that could be seen and touched.  Oddly, touchingly, he made grasping movements, as though he could snatch the individual notes out of the air and hold them in his palms.

Across the room, Dr. Watson sat himself down on the bed, his eyes never leaving his beloved Mr. Holmes as the latter lost himself in the music.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

_Clarky!_

I remembered Clarky. 

Clarky is Clarky!

He is brown and blue with traces of green and his words are like fine, aged brandy. As he speaks, I do not understand the words, but I can taste them, the warm glow they leave in their wake as they are swallowed, spreading out from my center.

Clarky is warm, but not like Watson is warm, because there is no one else quite like Watson. Clarky possesses his own quality, rich like the colors of the world, earthy, well rooted and strong.

Clarky knows the secret language of the notes that, as he brings the instrument to his chin to play, flitter about my head like butterflies alighting delicately on my brow, ghosting past my ears. 

I raise my hands and capture them, their wings beating softly against my cupped hands, I open my fist and they fly free once more, dancing around in the air, swooping high and low---up to the ceiling and down to the floor.

Some of the notes make their way across the room to Watson, bobbing about him as he sits on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. He is smiling, both at the music and at me and my heart soars along with the notes.

Some of the notes fall out of the air and land on his head and chest, where they sing to him, a tiny chorus of butterflies, soothing his uneasy spirit. I can feel his strain, his worry shooting little arrows in my direction that strike me, but bounce off leaving no mark. I want to do something about that but I can’t remember what, my thoughts, not nearly as organized as the mathematical procession of notes, dance just out of my ken.

I watch as Watson’s beautiful blue eyes close and his head lolls onto his chest. He does not look especially comfortable, even though the butterfly notes continue to sing to him softly. 

I rise from the floor and cross over to the bed, snatching notes as I go. I lay down next to Watson, curling myself against him.

His brow is furrowed, even in sleep, and I reach up to place some of the butterfly notes I’ve snatched there on his brow, where their wings will comfort and soothe the lines away. I touch his face; skim a hand down his neck and onto his chest.

I lay my head next to where my hand has come to rest. I taste the strong beat of his heart; it is like cigars and good English tea.

Watson is warm and he smells like safety.

I follow him down into slumber, perhaps on the other side of the dreams we can speak with more than looks and silences. I can tell that would please Watson.

 

_Mycroft:  _

I returned to Pall Mall, exhausted in both body and spirit.

The soft sounds of Clark’s violin drifted down from my brother’s room, and I followed them, like a siren song.

Clark sat on a chair near the window that had caused so much grief merely by being open the day before, playing a softly soothing song that I should recognize but for which my tired brain would not produce a name.

Across the room, Watson snored softly, my brother curled around him, also asleep. They seemed so peaceful and in such a state of blissful accord, I could almost imagine a tableau from our days in Leukerbad, in those magical days before Mary’s death, when my brother was improving under his beloved doctor’s tender care.

Oh that it were so that things were now what they had been then, when all was hope and contentment!

I smiled at Clark and nodded. He continued to play for the better part of an hour, finally putting aside the instrument. We both sat gazing fondly at the pair sleeping so innocently on the bed.

“We leave for Chichester tomorrow, Clark. I cannot thank you enough for coming today and doing me this great favor.  I can tell by looking at the pair of them that you worked magic with your music,” I said softly, my voice pitched so that it could not disturb the sleeping duo.

“I could come with, sir, if you need me there. As you know from our days on the Continent, I can make myself useful in a number of ways. It would be my pleasure.” Clark responded, his generous spirit touching me yet again.

“You deserve to be with your family after having been away from them for so long. I’ve imposed on your kindness and the forbearance of your family enough. Maybe after a week or two, we could arrange for you to come, if you are still willing--for a visit at least. After Sherlock is more himself again. If he ever is…”

“He will be, sir. He’s had a rough go of it for a long time now, and this latest—well of course it shouldn’t have happened. But if anyone can bring him back to what he was, it’s the Doctor there. Just give them time. You’ll see.”

Looking into Clarky’s kind eyes, I was humbled yet again.

I wanted nothing more than to share his faith, which seemed so pure and unshakeable.

I saw Clark out not long afterward, effusive in my thanks, and determined once more to see this fine man rewarded for his good heart as much as his great competency at his job.

A part of me wanted to return to my brother’s rooms and sit vigil over the sleeping lovers to guard them from any harm that might try to approach as they slept. But my own exhaustion, mental and physical, was such that I turned instead to my own rooms and had my own lie down.

I fell asleep with the words of a prayer on my lips, that miracles might yet still exist and that healing would be found those sixty odd miles away at my country estate.

 

_Sherlock_ _ Holmes:_

The brilliant, shining light that was Watson shook me from a troubled slumber full of shadows and horrors, corpse brides and hollow eyed skeleton children.

“If we’re to make our train to Chichester, you must get up, dearest. The carriage will be here in less than an hour. ”

I tried to focus on the meaning of his words, but my brain did not want to cooperate. I knew that Chichester was a place, and that a carriage was a conveyance, pulled by horses, but I did not understand beyond that, what difference that should make to me.

Some of my confusion must have shown in my countenance, for Bright Watson was speaking again. I did not mind, his voice was so lovely, calm, gentle, I truly could listen to it for hours.

“You promised me some time in the country, at your brother’s estate, you do remember don’t you? The arrangements have all been made; we must just get ourselves and Gladstone to the train station. Your brother Mycroft is meeting us at the depot; he had some small business to take care of at Whitehall this morning.”

I did not recall, precisely. My thoughts and memories were disordered, and try as I might to deduce the order in which they should properly go, I could not seem to do so. I did know Watson to be the very soul of honesty however. If he said we were to go to Chichester, then go we must.

I rose, and under Watson’s approving eye, saw to matters of my toilet.  My forearm itched beneath a bright white bandage, when I attempted to scratch it, his gentle hand lay over mine and he shook his head.

“Leave it alone, dear boy, it was a nasty gash and it needs time to heal. When the itching is too unbearable, you may tap it lightly, but under no circumstances should you rub or scratch it.”

I wondered vaguely how I came to have a gash on my forearm, but again the memory would not come. Watson was a medical doctor, I remembered that much, and as a cut on the arm was entirely to be considered a medical matter, it seemed prudent to follow his dictates.

 

_Watson:_

 

We collected Gladstone, fresh returned from his morning walk with the footman, and were soon on our way to the train station.

Mycroft had arranged for a special car attached to one of the regular routes to Sussex, and was waiting for us within it as we boarded. The elder Holmes looked nearly as careworn and done in as I was feeling this morning. Our journey to Chichester could not come at a better time.

Holmes had weathered the drive to the train station well, in the main, although the bustle of the streets and the noise of the city seemed to have an unexpected and somewhat troublesome effect on him. He had always thrived on the tempo of the city, never affected by its vagaries in sight, sound and smell, this day; he seemed adversely affected by all. 

The clatter of carriages, the shouts of people, all the sounds that faded away into significance for any long time resident of London, seemed to conspire to startle and wear on him in turns. The city air, even though much improved from its wintertime worst in these late days of summer was still redolent of the usual aromas, and seemed to bring up a greenish cast to his skin that had me worrying that we might need to stop the carriage to allow him to relieve himself of the breakfast I’d been so happy to see him consume. The sunlight seemed particularly painful to his eyes, he retreated behind the tinted glasses he’d taken up as more of an affectation in happier times quite happily and with an unmistakable sense of relief. 

The private car therefore, was a comparative oasis of silence and peace, and upon entering it, he relaxed profoundly. Very soon after settling ourselves within, and our journey beginning I found Holmes’s head nodding toward my shoulder, even has he drew his legs up onto the bench. Within moments he was deeply asleep.

Fearful for the integrity of his spine arranged at such an odd angle, I eased his head off my shoulder, and cradled it against my chest, my arm draped around his shoulders. He heaved a great sigh, soothed, it seemed apparent, by the sound of my heart beating beneath his ear.

Mycroft had been assiduously studying his morning paper after his initial greeting of the pair of us but after some time, I could feel his eyes upon us, or more properly, upon his brother. 

An hour into our journey, Mycroft excused himself, announcing his intention to seek out the dining car, even though I know he had breakfasted before we had, it was not yet time for luncheon, and however much he might be considered gourmand by virtue of his size, that he did not partake of between meal comestibles.

I think of all the troubles that had afflicted Sherlock in these last weeks and months none had had such a profound emotional effect on his brother as had this unnatural silence. Mycroft, ever unflappable could deal with any infirmity save this one. 

The Holmes brothers, above all else, prized reason and order, and nothing flew so much in the face of both than a circumstance such as this, a brilliant mind turned in on itself, disconnected from the world at large, a beautiful voice, renowned for expounding in the cause of reason, silenced.

I missed Holmes’s voice and wit too, so horribly that I dreamt of him talking to me, losing myself in his words as another might a captivating novel or a beautiful aria. And it had only been two days. What might I do if I never heard him speak again?

I would never leave him, especially not now, and I would never give up hope of pulling him back into the world, reviving a stunned and wounded mind and restoring him whole. I would make it my life’s work if I must.

But the enormity of what had happened—how the fact of my wife having died of complications of an ectopic pregnancy –had robbed the world of one of its most brilliant minds, was suddenly too much to bear.

Mycroft was gone from the car. Gladstone was asleep at my feet, Holmes in my arms.

I let go the control that had been keeping me together these last few days, and wept, uncontrollably; though not so loudly or wildly that I disturbed my beloved at his rest.

I needed to cauterize the wound that was my own loss, my own culpability, my own helplessness. Only then could I hope to go forward and affect a healing on the one patient I would give up my entire world for, and already had.

 

**

 

 

 


	38. "Grist for the Mill"

**Finality: **

**Chapter 36: “grist for the mill”**

L.A. Adolf

 

_“All is grist for the mill”_

_English Proverb_

 

_Mycroft:_

“I propose taking your brother out for an airing this afternoon,” Dr. Watson stated after sitting across from me in my study in silence for some moments.

“An airing, doctor?  He is not a rug, for heaven’s sake.” I responded, an ill advised attempt at levity. We had been in residence at my estate for three days, during which there had been no discernable improvement in my brother’s condition, and the strain had begun to show ever more plainly on the good doctor’s face.

Watson looked at me as though I’d suggested that Sherlock be thrown over a clothesline and beaten as though he _were_ a carpet. While that was a jest I might have made in happier times, it was distinctly inappropriate now.

“I am not the one who is treating him as though he is an inanimate object, Mycroft.” Watson responded coolly, the edge of ice in his voice so sharp it should have drawn blood.

“And by default, I am?” I responded, trying to keep my voice level. The truth of it was that my brother’s infirmity was a source of great strain to both of us and our nerves were raw with it. 

“You have ceased to speak to him. He will never be coaxed back into the world of words if he is not engaged like a normal human being.” Watson retorted.

I gazed at the doctor in shock, wanting to deny the accusation, but upon instantaneous reflection I realized he was right. It was so dispiriting to me to see my brother so very silent and withdrawn that I had stopped attempting to speak to him, and had found myself making excuses against spending any length of time with him since we had arrived at the estate. I could have stayed in London for all the good I’d done by coming with! One part of me desperately wanted to be there for Sherlock at all times and in all ways until he recovered his senses, another part of me so feared his condition being permanent, that I’d already begun to brace myself against the inevitability.

“I’m sorry, John. That wasn’t my intention. I’m not very gifted at one sided conversations, but for my brother’s sake I should not be so concerned with sounding a fool.” I replied, “I will endeavor to do better. How is he doing, has there been any improvement at all for these last three days of rest?”

“Physically, there has been a marked improvement. He hasn’t spiked a fever since we arrived, and he’s sleeping through the night without the wakeful periods that had been the norm in London before…” Watson’s voice cracked at the memory of my brother’s breakdown, but only momentarily, “His appetite is good, his color better. The gash on his arm is healing well, indicating that his underlying health is much improved over what it was. I would never have expected it, but being away from London has been the best thing for him _physically_.”

“His state of mind…” I prompted, gratified at the good report of his corporeal aspect, but wanting to know if Watson had witnessed some small change in his mental status that I had missed in my inattention. 

“Remains the same,” Watson sighed. “He seems to follow more of my words than at first and to be less confounded by requests and the world at large, but he is still strangely disconnected… I am not used to a compliant Sherlock Holmes, who follows my every order and so noiselessly strives to please. I rather miss the contrary fellow who could be counted on doing precisely the opposite of what I wished and who could be depended upon to argue the point strenuously. His voice—I miss that most of all. It is almost like withdrawing from a drug…its lack is painful.” Watson’s voice had grown progressively more soft and distracted, until at the end I realized he had all but forgotten I was still in the room.

“And how are _you_, John?” I asked, kindly but intently. If my brother had outwardly improved after three days of loafing silently about the country house, Watson himself had grown more gaunt and pinched in aspect. He had the squint-eyed look of the chronic headache sufferer and I doubted that he slept soundly and perhaps not at all.

Watson looked taken aback. “I’m fine! My health has never been in question.”  He retorted defensively.

“Perhaps it should be. You suffered a grievous loss not long ago, after months of strain and stress taking care of my brother. Even the strongest man cannot be expected to remain unaffected in the face of all of that. You must take care of yourself. Sherlock would most certainly not survive it if anything untoward happened to you.” I responded in calm, even tones.

John Watson looked at me, hollow eyed.  “I am fine.” He repeated although it sounded as though he were endeavoring to convince himself as much as me. 

“Perhaps you will let me immediately rectify my neglect of Sherlock by allowing me to take him out for his airing this afternoon? There have been several improvements made to the estate since his last visit; I have it in mind to give him a tour of them. And perhaps afterward I could set him to having a look at the mantel clocks?  They seem to share the same affliction as those in my Pall Mall apartments, if he could be coaxed to work his magic on them…”  I let the thought trail off.

“You may end up with a pile of useless clockworks.” Watson interjected; we have no way to know how much of his mechanical aptitude remains intact…”

“And yet sometimes, working with one’s hands to fix something is the best way to repair ourselves. I think I can afford to risk a few of the estate timepieces to testing the theory in any event.” I replied. “May I take that as permission to take my brother out and about, while you take your ease in your rooms? I shall have my housekeeper bring you a nice soporific tea, and assure that you are undisturbed for the rest of the day.”

Watson smiled at me, his mouth set at a wry angle. “You _do_ need to socialize with your brother. He must be treated as though he is perfectly normal in all respects; I feel that is the key to his ultimate recovery.”

“Then it is settled. I shall collect him at once. Come, I will walk you back to your rooms.”

**

_Watson:_

It took Mycroft three attempts to successfully coax his brother out of our rooms and along on his tour of the estate. My dearest Holmes seemed at first quite amiable to the idea of accompanying his brother, until it became plain that I was not going with. When he realized that I was not following them out the door, Sherlock turned back and came to stand in front of me somewhat expectantly, patiently waiting until I should gather myself to come along. 

I attempted to explain to my beloved that I was tired and wanted to rest but that he should avail himself of this opportunity to accompany his sibling on his inspection of the grounds. He seemed only to grasp the concept that I had admitted being tired, and lowered himself down beside me on the bed seemingly content to keep me company.

It occurred to me that while Mycroft’s offer had been kind and should generally have been a good idea, the struggle to overcome his disinclination to leave my side was probably not going to be worth the effort long term. I had very nearly, after the second attempt to encourage him out the door, decided to hang taking my ease and revert to my original plan of commanding the outing myself.

Mycroft, however, had one last strategy to employ. Standing over his brother as he sat beside me on the bed, he reached out, grasped Sherlock’s chin in his hand to force eye contact and spoke quite sharply.

“Sherlock! You must allow Dr. Watson to rest or he will become very ill. Enough of this obstreperousness and come with me. **Now**!”

The large brown eyes flew wide for a moment—and my heart soared for it seemed that we might be treated to typical Sherlockian reaction to being talked to in such a highhanded manner—but as quickly as it came the look vanished, and with something of the aspect of a kicked puppy, my poor Holmes stood and followed his brother to the door.

But he did not pass through that portal without one last, long, lingering look backward, which very nearly unmanned me with its profound sadness. I had the sudden inspiration that the concept of “going away and coming back” might be somewhat beyond my dearest in his present state, and I called softly after him.

“I will be here when you return, you have my word.” I reassured, putting as much warmth and sincerity in my voice as I could. It seemed to suffice, my darling’s head turned forward and he followed Mycroft with no further hesitation.

The door closed behind the pair, leaving me to uninterrupted contemplation both of the seeming hopelessness of Holmes’s situation and of my own physical pain.

The headache had started—oddly enough--with our arrival in Chichester, just at the point where I had thought I could release  some of the tension I had been holding in my body these last weeks in London.

The pain had been a steady throbbing presence ever since, settling behind my eyes with a steadfastness that no amount of willow bark tea would touch.  It was not so bothersome l that I felt the need to turn to stronger remedies, yet it was sufficient to be a wearing distraction that I did not need when my dearest Holmes’s care rightfully demanded my full attention.

Mycroft was correct, I did need rest, but unfortunately and concurrent with leaving London, the very concept had proved frustratingly elusive.

In our three days of residence at Mycroft’s large estate, I had yet to sleep the full night through.

My dreams ran the gamut from pleasant idylls in which Holmes’s voice spoke to me as of old of life and hope and dreams, to nightmarish phantasms where I found myself in an altered reality where Mary yet lived, but Holmes was dead. The latter drove me into wakefulness in such a state of panic that it was only the realization that I held my beloved safe in my arms that kept me from screaming out in terror—as it was my heart pounded so loudly and painfully in my chest, I wondered that it did not wake him with its staccato beat.

That I was rapidly reaching the end of my own endurance, I understood only too well.  My worst fear was of becoming less than useless to Holmes when he needed me the most, it haunted my every waking hour.

Sometime later the tea provided so kindly by Mycroft’s housekeeper finally had its effect, and I fell into a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep.

 

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

Bright Watson’s radiance was dimming.

I could see, smell and taste his diminishing energy.

I knew that should his intensity flicker too low, that I would be a shadow without a light to give me definition. A shadow without illumination cannot exist.

Nor does it have any desire to do so.

I had endeavored, since we had come to this new place, to stay as close to Watson as I could, doing all that I was able to fortify his flagging spirit. I knew it was not enough, as I ever knew that _I_ had never been quite enough for as long as I had drawn breath. But for Watson I would strive to be more than I ever could be without him.

Mycroft had forced me from Watson’s side, had spoken to me in a way my brother never had before. I did not like it. I should like to have told him so, but I had no words. I had lost them somewhere along the way and could not seem to retrace my steps in order to find where.

I must attempt to gather new ones.

I understood however, that my brother comprehended the same truth that I knew. That Watson was fading. But he was mistaken in his belief that separating me from him would in any way repair this circumstance.

I had no interest in irrigation techniques or the latest theories of animal husbandry. As I walked along with my sibling I listened to him expound on these things, but I counted the minutes until I could return to my luminous Watson’s side.

It was my greatest fear that I would return to find him extinguished.

I only agreed to leave at all because he promised me he would yet be there when I returned. If he was not…

I would never forgive my brother.

 

_Mycroft: _

I was very familiar with my brother at the end of his patience.

I should have found it heartening to read those familiar signs in the silent revenant at my side, and in a sense I was. Any hint that the essence of the man who was my brother remained was to be celebrated.

But it was never comfortable or desirable to find myself the focus Sherlock’s wrath, I loved him far too much for it not to wound deeply.

I was uncomfortably aware that I had parroted my late father’s voice in ordering my brother from Watson’s room, adopted his stern and unbending manner. While effective in accomplishing my goal, which _was_ on the side of the angels—Watson inarguably was on his last reserves and needed respite immediately—it was regrettable in the extreme otherwise. My father, many years in his grave, was best left there, and certainly not to be reanimated to bully Sherlock in his vulnerable state!

Seeing him out in the sunshine and fresh air did serve to underscore the fact that Watson’s observations were correct. It was a subtle difference, but there had been improvement in my brother’s physical condition, I could see the signs of it in how he moved and how he looked. He was somehow more substantial in his particulars, he walked with something of his old grace and ease and less like the arthritic old man he’d seemed for so long.

How contrary it was that he should be so physically improved whilst his mind continued to suffer! If only he would speak, if but one word!

I had given up hope of even marginally distracting Sherlock until we came –in our perambulation about the grounds, upon the folly.

Follies are by nature, just that, an architectural expression of foolishness and extravagance.

That the Holmes ancestral seat should sport one that was in its own way not entirely merely ornamental spoke of a certain practical mindedness in our forebears.

The folly on my estate was a half scale recreation of a medieval mill, complete with a functional water wheel, powered by the stream that meandered through the grounds. It actually had the capacity to grind grain into flour, though, due to the its somewhat stunted size, the output at the best of times would go little more than keep my cook in sufficient quantity to produce a loaf of bread a week.

As boys, Sherlock and I had enjoyed feeding the grinding stones, my brother had been especially fascinated early on by the mechanical workings, how hydraulic power could be harnessed toward practical ends.

That same fascination came over him now as we approached the gristmill. It was as though he were seeing it for the first time, and I suppose, given the damage done to that brilliant mind, perhaps he was.

Had I been thinking a bit more clearly, it might have impressed me that as we approached the structure, my brother did something singular. He moved away from my side and approached the building quite on his own.

Since his mental collapse he had done little else but act as a shadow to either Watson or myself, staying close as if drawing security from proximity to one of us, which it was somewhat painful to realize, was probably exactly the case. He had done little to initiate activity of his own, preferring instead to copy what we did. It was disconcerting to say the least, to witness such behavior in someone who had so largely forged his own particular path in the world ever since birth.

I followed Sherlock, watching as he inspected the building minutely, his regard so eerie an echo of his usual masterful perception, that I began to take some small amount of heart.

He was particularly drawn to the mechanics—a positive sign indeed. And predominantly the grindstones—which even in this smaller than life recreation were substantial pieces of rock.

 After several minutes of contemplation, he turned to me and pointed.  Though he did not speak, the question on his face was plain and I responded, calling out the various names of the mechanical gears and armature that drove the massive wheels as he pointed one elegant finger at each.

There was an intense interest in his expression that did cause my heart to swell with hope, as did his curiosity –suddenly reawakened – in _words!_ I found myself wishing Watson was with us, for I felt certain in that moment, that this was something significant.

Excited, I moved across the small space, to where the stone nut was situated, that worthy device being the means by which the water wheel powered the grinding. The stones were silent now; the water wheel turning outside not actively engaged to their powering, I immediately remedied this situation.

I turned to gaze at my brother, studying him carefully as he watched the free moving top stone grind against its stationary partner.

He noticed my regard and pointed once again, to the uppermost of the sandstone surfaces.

“That is the runner stone!” I responded, “And that,” I paused as my brother gestured to the stationary surface, “is the bedstone. They are both made from buhrstone.”

Sherlock continued to study them for a moment, then made a quick odd gesture that I did not at first follow.

“I don’t understand,  Brother Mine?” I objected mildly.I had never been particularly gifted at playing pantomime, but I suppose he could not be expected to remember that.

My brother grimaced for a moment, and then repeated his gesture much more slowly. It was an expansive gesticulation, and the best I could determine was that he wanted to know what the stones were called—collectively.

“Grinding stones?” I suggested.

Sherlock tossed his head impatiently.  _No!_

I thought for a moment. “Millstones?” 

He nodded, an odd look crossing his face. He put a hand to his chest, rubbing, as though his heart suddenly pained him.

I castigated myself. No matter how improved he was, he was still far from completely recovered.  I disconnected the stone nut and hurried to his side, taking his arm.

“Come brother, let’s get you back to the house and to your doctor, shall we?” I took his arm and guided him carefully back out into the August sunshine.

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

The folly.

A gristmill.

It was appropriate.

I knew upon seeing it that I had been here before, I did not recall when or why, but it was intimately familiar to me.

I like the precision of machinery. I remembered that now. There was a fundamental appeal in the harnessing of natural forces toward practical ends and a useful product.

I still had no words. But perhaps I could gather some around me now.

I stepped away from my brother’s side and entered the folly building. Mycroft followed me, as I anticipated he would.

I pointed, a mute request for the names of the discrete elements in this marvel.  Mycroft, blessedly, divined my need, responded immediately.

_Rynd,_

_macehead _

_spindle..._

_runner stone_

_bedstone._

I gathered these treasures in my memory, vowing not to forget them again.

I made a quick gesture—demanding— and from the puzzlement on Mycroft’s face, not entirely clear.

“I don’t understand, Brother Mine?” he said.

I repeated my gesture, slowing down, taking particular care to try to communicate that I needed to know what these large stone objects were, together.

“Grinding stones?”

I tossed my head impatiently

“Millstones?

My memory, sparked abruptly from its dormancy, shot forth a projectile from its recesses.

A feminine voice, intimately familiar.

Hateful.

_“You have **ever** been the millstone around my neck!” _

_Millstone..._

I remembered, suddenly and painfully, asking a tutor what a millstone was when I was but a small boy, first learning the magic of words. He had asked how I had heard of it, and I responded, repeating the line that I had heard my mother speak more than once, gazing at me from her sickbed.

The man had paled, I remembered, but had explained that in that particular context that a millstone was a Biblical metaphor meaning a burden or large inconvenience one must endure.

That had been the sense I had gained whenever she had said it. Curiosity satisfied, I had moved on.

I put a hand to my chest. I must do so now. Watson would expect nothing less of me.

My memory must have agreed, for as my brother, his face stricken, came to take my arm, I remembered something else. 

A proverb, I think they are called. 

_All is grist for the mill._

That meant, as I remembered, that whatever raw material you might start with, in the end what was important was that there came from that a final useful product.

I had structured my life on such a belief. 

I must do so again.

**


	39. "the leading of the heart"

Thanks to Nodbear for the use of her "Sonnet for SH by JHW"

**Finality:**

**Chapter 37: “the leading of the heart”**

 

L.A. Adolf

 

_Watson:_

The feather light touch of fingers smoothing my brow roused me from sleep. I knew that touch without opening my eyes.  For that initial moment of wakefulness I forgot the circumstances of our altered existence,  I smiled. Reaching up, I captured the phantom hand in my own, drawing the fingers down to my lips and kissing them before letting them go.

“Holmes,” I murmured, opening my eyes at last.

The face I looked up into was warm and loving, but memory of his condition flooded back into my mind as his aspect coalesced in my vision.  I did not, however, allow my smile to falter with the realization.

“Did you have a good outing with Mycroft?”  I asked quietly, not expecting an answer –or even so much as an acknowledgement of any kind that I had spoken. The strange state the Holmes had fallen into made his reaction to speech variable, sometimes there would be some response however odd, other times, nothing.

One slender finger traced down the side of my face, and came to rest against my lips again, whilst the other hand passed before his own face, eyes open before the hand lowered, closed as it dropped below.

Pantomime! -- For “be quiet and close your eyes”!

This was progress!  My dearest Holmes had not made so direct an attempt at communication since that dreadful day…!

The _last_ thing I wanted to do was close my eyes and be quiet!  This was the first evidence of progress in the recovery of my darling’s senses that I’d had since his breakdown.  I wondered that had transpired during my nap, and possibly during Holmes’s tour of the estate with his brother to have wrought this change.  I was full of a thousand questions.

I must have slept for some hours, from the quality of the light filtering into the room around the drawn curtains; it was late afternoon, perhaps even early evening.  I felt somewhat restored, even the headache had abated somewhat, although I could still sense it hovering in the background, waiting for the slightest provocation to return.  Given the length of my nap it was quite possible that the earth had shifted on its axis and miracles had been wrought.

I kissed the finger that still rested against my lips, then gently pulled it away.

Holmes heaved a gusty sigh and looked at me disapprovingly.  He repeated the gesture bidding me close my eyes.  I laughed gently and shook my head. 

“I’m well rested, Holmes! I promise you!” I levered myself up on my elbows and grinned at him.  “I’ve slept a good part of the day away, it seems.”

I had hoped that my words would reassure my darling, but there was a shadow in the eyes which regarded me thoughtfully.  That there seemed to be more of the man I adored alive within them was heartening indeed, but the flicker of emotion I sensed was not a happy one.

His hand planted itself in the middle of my chest, and pressed me downward, a steady, inarguable pressure that was infinitely tender at the same time. As little as I desired to, I allowed myself to collapse, my back flat on the bed.

Holmes gave me a small smile and a look of approval, repeated his gesture once more.

I sighed.  I had no intention…

Holmes apparently read my mood. His brow drew together sternly and he reached out.  He placed a hand over both my eyes, until finally I yielded and closed them, realizing with no small amount of joy, that Holmes, even silent, was as stubborn as ever and would brook no argument.

That was a fact to be celebrated-- however quietly and privately at the moment since to do otherwise would be to tempt his wrath!

Holmes’s hand removed itself after a beat and I kept my eyelids dutifully closed however much I literally twitched to open them.

My dearest stood and moved away from the bed, something I perceived by the slight rise of the mattress as it gave up his weight.  I took a chance and lifted one eyelid marginally.

I watched surreptitiously as Holmes walked across the room to the violin case which had sat neglected atop a chest of drawers ever since our arrival.  He had not done so much as glance at it these last few days, however much I had hoped that curiosity would seize him and he would be compelled to investigate the rather obvious and out of place object.

I was entranced as he reached out, opened the case and removed his beloved Stradivarius with all the reverence he had ever exhibited towards the instrument.  My heart soared as he petted it as fondly--as some would a pet cat--then turned back in my direction.

I closed my eye then, so as not to be discovered.  I sensed, rather than saw my dearest sit himself down in a bedside chair and bring the bow to the strings.

The music that poured forth from the instrument and its player was no recognizable tune, but it was music nonetheless.  Sweet, sad, haunting, and yet somehow strangely comforting at the same time.

I allowed myself to savor this wonderful, unexpected gift.  I realized that much as he had with the pantomime, Holmes was finding a way to communicate with me, and it was all I could do to contain myself to the position he had been so insistent that I assume.  One part of me was content to lay there, rapt, attempting to discern the message my love was trying to convey; another wanted to be up and out of the bed, alternatively sitting at his feet entranced and dancing about him in delight at this very profound and encouraging change.

The music, poignant and dulcet, did have a relaxing effect on me, and I must have dozed a bit in spite of myself.  Next I knew, the music had stopped, the mattress dipped and I was joined on the bed by my dearest Holmes.  He curled about me, his cheek pressed to mine, and it was with great delight that I enjoyed his proximity, even more so because I could feel within him the love I knew he felt rather than the strange simulacrum of confused obligation I had discerned before.

His breathing evened out in sleep very quickly, but for my own part, I was wide awake again, but careful to feign my own slumber, completely and profoundly overjoyed that progress, however small it might seem to some, had finally come.

 

We remained thus, until there was a knock at our door and the servant summoned us to dinner.

I think, had Holmes been able, he would have insisted on a tray from the kitchen rather than our attendance at the dinner table.  He roused quickly from his own nap, but seemed infinitely loath to see me rise up off the bed and begin to dress for the meal.  He followed suit in short order, casting looks in my direction that were both doubtful and mildly reproachful. 

I could not help but smile.  I recognized in his manner something of my own, which had long ago earned me the sobriquet of “mother hen” from Holmes.  He on the other hand had always been no less solicitous, but in his own inimitable way which had layered feigned indifference with masterful misdirection.  His lack of speech in this moment, robbed him of his usual subterfuge.

We presented ourselves in the dining room, some minutes later, arriving arm in arm.

 

_Mycroft:_

“Doctor! You look well rested!  Brother!  Do not look so disbelieving!”  I said with a forced cheer as my brother and his doctor entered the dining room.

I was not being mendacious exactly, Watson did look better rested than he had earlier today, before his afternoon lie-down, but he was still wan with fatigue. Whatever rest he had been able to have today was not going to be enough.

It occurred to me that perhaps I had erred in discouraging Clark from coming to Chichester with us.  In spite of Sherlock’s dire condition at the time, Watson had not so flagged whilst we were in Switzerland, but we’d had the constable as a good right hand, and then Mrs. Hudson had come.

With my brother’s continuing infirmity and the blow of his wife’s death, it now seemed negligent of me to have not provided more in the way of moral support and care giving aid. 

Sherlock, for his part, was hard pressed to take his eyes from his dearest doctor; the large brown eyes were haunted with worry.  There was more of my brother shining through those expressive orbs now, which was a miracle in itself, but he was still silent.

For all that he looked on his last reserves, Watson was cheerful, reporting that not only had my brother communicated with him via signs, he had played the Stradivarius!  He pressed me for details of the afternoon’s outing, since Sherlock had obviously returned so much more animated. 

I obliged, leaving out the ill temper my brother had exhibited at first, beginning with our departure from the house but laying special emphasis on the occurrences at the folly where I had first noted Sherlock’s alteration of behavior for myself.

“He began asking me—through signs of course—the names of the discrete parts of the gristmill workings.”  I continued recounting our stellar moments inside the folly building.

Watson smiled broadly, the expression transforming the drawn features. “Remarkable!”

A day ago, we might have had this very same conversation with my sibling in the room as he was now, the flow of words and information seeming to not affect him in the slightest, he oblivious to being the subject of discussion. 

Today however, his discomfiture was palpable. He seemed at times ready to speak, to truly be intending to make the attempt, but the effort coming to no tangible result—to his own very obvious consternation.

“I’m intent on taking Sherlock into Chichester tomorrow, Mycroft.  I think a turn of the town, its shops and people would do your brother no end of good.”  Watson announced as I concluded my recounting of the afternoon’s events.

“You might consider taking your ease for another day, at least, John—” I began, frowning doubtfully.

“Nonsense.  I’m feeling a bit isolated myself, I think a tour of the town would be just the thing to perk me up.”  Watson replied dismissively.

“I’ll put a carriage at your disposal, avail yourself of it for any distance, Doctor, not merely for the trip to Chichester and back. Neither of you are as yet up to the rigors of a full-out tour of the town.  Gladstone will appreciate the refuge as well, I warrant, should you decide to take him.”  I admonished, casting a look toward the dog which lay stretched out in front of the dining room fireplace.  I then shifted my gaze in my brother’s direction.

Gone was the hearty appetite of those days of unmindful grace I noted, Sherlock was regarding his mashed potatoes and roast beef with his usual lack of enthusiasm, pushing the victuals about on his plate without much interest. 

It was such a characteristic bit of behavior, I warmed to Watson’s stricture to treat Sherlock as normally as possible  and quite without realizing, launched automatically  into one of the lectures I had been reading my brother for decades.

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, stop playing with your food and eat it!” I exclaimed.  “You aren't five.  Honestly, you would think the food was poisoned, the way you carry on –”

 _SPLAT!_

The contents of the bowl of a teaspoon impacted violently with my cravat. Mashed potatoes sliding down the Windsor knot.  Very calmly and deliberately, I wiped the mess away with my napkin.

Across the table, John Hamish Watson’s mouth dropped open in unfeigned astonishment.  Blue eyes round in his pale face, he looked from me to Sherlock and back again--several times.

My brother was glowering at me from his place between myself and Watson, the latter having taken to sitting next to my brother whenever at table.

“Holmes!”  Watson finally admonished, surprise clearly robbing him of his normal eloquence.

Surreptitiously, I loaded my own unused soup spoon –for its bowl was larger – and let fly. I was a bit out of practice, but was gratified when my return volley found its mark. My brother eyed the splotch on his lapel balefully.

Watson forced himself to overcome his initial surprise. His moustache twitched briefly in amusement, then he cleared his throat authoritatively.

“Boys--!  _Gentlemen!!!”  _Watson shouted_._

Both my brother and I swiveled our heads to regard the good doctor.

“I demand an immediate cease fire, if you please! Unless the pair of you are prepared to clean up any mess you make all by yourselves, you will end hostilities this instant!”

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

It was my considered opinion that Watson should be taking all his meals semi-reclined and from a bed tray, but without my words, I had no way to make that point.  Thus it was that I looped my arm through Watson’s and accompanied him grudgingly to the dining room.

Mycroft sat at the head of the table, not deigning to rise as we entered the room and arranged ourselves along the same side of the table. My dearest Watson had been insisting on this seating arrangement, I now recalled. And truth be told, the usual etiquette could be hanged if it meant that I could be seated so close to my beloved.

My brother commented on how well rested Watson looked, and I glowered in response, not sure if my at times somewhat callous sibling was practicing his sarcasm or not.  The words of others still had a bit of a foreign cast to my ear, I could not be sure of the accuracy of my perceptions.  I would have to pay special attention to working on this slight defect, for there is much to be learned and deduced from tone of voice.

My dearest took no exception to the comment however, launching at once into an embarrassing recital of my attempts to coax him back to sleep, and the impromptu serenade I had attempted with my violin when that had failed.

There is nothing more mortifying to the adult mind than being discussed as though one is not in the same room with the speakers. It was in my brain to inform my brother and my beloved of that fact when I realized that the words were still not mine to command.

This was becoming an insufferable impediment.  I must work harder at regaining this faculty!

Watson requested a full accounting of our amble about the estate grounds and Mycroft warmed to his subject, offering a colorful account of what to me had been a very different experience.  Of course, he could not know the anger with which I had embarked upon his tour with him, nor how little I truly cared about the life of a gentleman farmer—something he knew little of himself, being so seldom in residence in Chichester. 

As much as his discourse cried out for a running counterpoint, my tongue and vocal chords would not cooperate.  Instead, I focused on the food on my plate.

I was too far gone with worry for Watson to be able to reconcile myself to eating beyond a few experimental nibbles.  My dearest –for all his apparent bonhomie – was wracked by exhaustion.  His several hours of sleep might well have left him feeling somewhat revived, but I knew it to be but a temporary state.

I lost myself in several minutes of consideration how  best to deal with my stubborn Watson, how to convince him to take better care of himself than he had been exhibiting any inclination to do.  I recalled dimly hearing it said that doctors made the worst patients, I could believe this given Watson’s recent recalcitrance when I would have had him nap.

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, stop playing with your food and eat it! You aren't five.  Honestly, you would think the food was poisoned, the way you carry on –”

I was startled from my reverie by my brother addressing me in a patronizing manner. This tendency of his was becoming insupportable!  Just because I had lost my words did not mean I had lost my wits entirely.  At least I don’t think it did.

At any rate, if I was to be treated as a child, I might at least have the joy of acting like one.  I scooped a spoonful of mashed potatoes up, took aim and fired.

Mycroft, maddeningly, merely wiped the mess away. 

Watson on the other hand, looked nearly apoplectic.  That would not do –

_SPLAT!_

Distracted by Watson’s reaction, I was taken by surprise by Mycroft’s return volley.

Warrior instincts fully awakened, I availed myself of more mashed potatoes and—

“Boys--!  _Gentlemen!!!”  _My dearest doctor bellowed.

I snapped my head in Watson’s direction, startled that he retained enough bodily energy to affect such an impressive roar.

“I demand an immediate cease fire, if you please! Unless the pair of you are prepared to clean up any mess you make all by yourselves, you will end hostilities this instant!”

I immediately laid down my weapon and lifted my hands in surrender.  Across the table, my brother did the same.

 

_Watson:_

“…you will end hostilities this instant!”

I was truly less angry and dismayed than amused by the antics of the Holmes brothers.  It was such a whimsical moment of complete and utter normalcy that I sincerely felt the overpowering urge to laugh out loud, reminded of high spirits I had engaged in with my own late brother in our youth. 

But someone had to have a care for the staff and for some passing semblance of civility and propriety, and I was as ever, used to being the responsible adult in dealings with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at least.

His brother–Oh my.

I maintained my best attempt at sober features as my dearest Holmes laid down spoon and raised his hands in mock surrender.  The reaction was so entirely my beloved of old, that it was all I could do not to grab him up in a bear hug and dance about the room. Instead I satisfied myself with cleaning the glob of potatoes off my darling’s lapel.

At last, at long last…!  Hope!  It could be but a matter of time before my love was returned to me, whole and restored!

Mycroft subsided as well, and the meal continued to onward to its natural conclusion.

“I’ve taken the liberty of having several of the mantel clocks and a toolkit delivered to your room, Sherlock.”  The elder Holmes said as we lingered over coffee some time later.  “You did such a marvelous job of setting the Pall Mall timepieces to rights, I am hoping that you will have a look at these a well.”

Mycroft  making good on his plan to set his brother onto constructive work.  I could not help but approve, surely adjustment and repair of clockworks would benefit the precision workings of my beloved’s mind as well.  For the first time in several days, I felt that not only was full recovery of his wits possible, but inevitable.

Sherlock, for his part, nodded, casting me a fond glance.  He’d read my satisfaction with the request on my features, I was sure of it.

In normal days we might have indulged in a post prandial cigar or pipe, but Holmes seemed insistent that we retire very soon after dinner.  I was only too happy, under these most hopeful of circumstances to follow his wish.

As we left the dining room, I paused in front of the housekeeper, who awaited our departure to begin clearing the dishes.

“I find I must apologize on behalf of your master and his brother for their high spirits at the dinner table. I do believe I was able to avert a rather major crisis by application of some strenuous objections.”  I smiled.

The kindly lined face broke into a wide grin.  “Never you  mind, sir… we’re used to it here, still scrubbing spotted dick from the carpet over yonder from the last time Mr. Sherlock came to visit. Happens every time!  Boys will be boys!”

I grinned in return and followed as _my_ dearest boy tugged on my arm.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

Mycroft was good as his word, a writing table had been cleared in the rooms and at least five mantel clocks sat atop it, next to a fine jeweler’s toolkit, very like my own.  Each clock face did register a slightly different time, I perceived, and did not tick in unison.

My hands began to itch as I regarded them, eager to explore and reveal their mysteries; machinery had ever fascinated me thus.

But I had other priorities.

Watson was in the water closet adjoining our suite of rooms, and I followed him in, snatching a towel from the stack with which to cover the clocks to stifle the cacophony of their combined ticking.  Returned from that errand, I watched as Watson regarded himself in the mirror above the basin, before setting about to remove his collar and rolling up sleeves preparatory to scrubbing his face and arms.

I touched him, gesturing towards the large bathtub, signing my intention to draw a bath for him.  He shook his head.

“Too tired to bother tonight, old boy.  But thank you.”  He smiled gently at me, reaching out to place a hand to my cheek briefly, thus communicating to me by touch how very grateful my offer had made him.  He then turned back to his ablutions.

I watched for a moment, saw plainly what he himself probably did not perceive: that every movement seemed an effort.  I could stand it no more.  I took the washcloth he had dampened from him, turned him gently away from the mirror to face me, and took over the cleansing of his face and arms.

He relaxed under my ministrations.  Emboldened, I unbuttoned his shirt and removed  it, continuing the sponge bath, renewing the warm water of the cloth, and tenderly moving it over the well muscled chest, torso and shoulders.  To my immense gratification he grew drowsy under my touch.  I dried him off tenderly; so very grateful to return in some small measures the great kindnesses  he had shown me. 

It came back to me, then and there, how it was his face I’d first seen, crawling up from the dark chasm into which I had fallen after Moriarty’s death.  It was he and none other, who had held out a firm hand to draw me back into the land of the living.  For all that it had seemed a mixed blessing at the time, I would never be able to repay him for forcing me to see the light of another day, because with it had come the greatest happiness I had ever known.

I remembered that now.

How could I have ever forgotten?

I reached for his nightshirt and pulled it on over his head, steadying him as he saw to the removal of his trousers.

I led him to the bed, turned back the covers and gestured him to lie down.  He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the volume of poetry that I recalled he had been reading to me every night.  I laid a hand on his as it came to rest on the volume and shook my head, turning a plaintive eye to him.

_Not tonight, dear boy. You must rest._

Those words I wanted to say, but my stubborn tongue would not cooperate—it was as though it had forgotten that it was at the bidding of my brain.

But Watson seemed to understand.  He bade me pause and from the back of the poetry volume, retrieved a sheet of folded parchment.

“Please Holmes, I –I have something.  Something I wrote for you, that I had not the time to share before you—before we came here.  I would read it to you now. Then I promise, I shall lie down and go to sleep.”

I nodded my assent, pulling a straight back chair closer to the bed.

My dearest Watson took a deep breath, gifted me with a hesitant, sweet hearted smile and began to read:

 

“How would I start to speak of you? As friend_  
_and lover both? Or of your wisdom, love  
frailty, strength – yes, paradox, indeed! Send  
me a muse that can combine your graces, prove  
all these are you, and much and richer far  
and with all these I am blessed in knowing you.  
Through loss and painful fear and doubts which are  
now fading, we both have learned how true  
the leading of the heart, when tempered close  
By thought and loyal care. We have so great  
a gift between us  freely given, like the rose  
whose  silent eloquence yet dares to state  
in face of all life’s worst,  that herein lies  
our mutual giving, no heaven a greater prize.”

 

The words flooded into my brain, bringing light and love and all the worldly graces.  I felt something give that had remained resistant these past days, the final turning of a lock.

I opened my mouth, but sound would not come.  I was frustrated, but not overwhelmingly so, because I realized that my dearest heart’s magic would yet take a bit of time to work to its fullest. But how I regretted that I could not now pour out my heart to him, as he had just done!

I closed the small space between us, taking his adored face in both my own, I tilted his head up and kissed him, full on the lips, breathing my soul into him once more for safekeeping.

I then drew his head against my chest, so that he did not have to see the tears that coursed down my cheeks, although I could not hide from him the small sobs that surely wracked my body. 

He made sounds of comfort and drew his own arms around me, and for several magical moments we clung to each other, refugees in a storm.

I collected myself, removing the paper from his hand. I stood at arm’s length, pressing the sheet to first my lips and then to my heart.

He seemed, for once, as speechless as I.

I laid him down then, turned down the bedside lamp and though my voice was rusty, I did manage a hum, of one of his favorite songs.  I might have reached for the violin, but it seemed, when I began the nonverbal song, that it touched him so deeply that I continued on.

He fell to sleep with a beatific smile on his face.

I removed myself to the lamp on the writing table and read the lines that followed after my beloved’s sonnet to ourselves, feeling the well of tears once more.

JHW, for SH, wishing the former were anything of a poet  
but with all the love that might perfect what skill cannot.

He was more of a poet to me in that moment than Tennyson or Byron or any of the rest, including the Bard.  I sat myself down next to the shrouded clocks.

That I had lived long enough to have and understand such a perfect love was no less than the greatest miracle of my existence.

I would have this parchment framed, immortalized for all time.  I allowed myself the relief of healing tears, taking care that they did not fall on the jewel before me.

After a march of some minutes, with Watson’s soft snores music to my soul, I set aside my treasure.  I took up the toolkit and removed one clock from its shroud.

I had work to do.  Mycroft meant me to work on these timepieces as an avenue to repairing myself. 

I set about to do so.

**

 


	40. "an agony on beauty's edge

**Finality: **

**Chapter 38: “** **an agony on beauty’s edge”**

L.A. Adolf

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I roused to Watson’s insistent voice.

“Time to wake up Holmes, it’s half past nine.”

I had been working on clocks until past midnight; to my drowsy mind half past nine was as yet, the middle of my night.

I might not have my words back yet, but I could produce a passable protesting groan and I did so now. I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in my pillow.

“The housekeeper has told me of a pair of windmills, not an hour away by carriage; their sails power a flour mill!  I propose we start our day there! You’ll enjoy that, I know you will.”  Watson was seated on the edge of the bed, leaning close.  His hand laid itself in the middle of my back.  He did not nudge or shake, but instead drew lazy circles with his fingers between my shoulder blades.

His touch had an immediate and galvanizing effect on me—the fingers seeming to channel a current throughout my body, making me feel alive in ways I had never considered in the past.

Unimaginable …

It was a certainty that I would be sleeping no more this morning.

I opened one eye and peered at him even as I left the rest of my visage pressed to the pillow, fixing my dearest with my best glare-- albeit, one eyed.

I beheld my poor Watson’s face. It was so altered I might not have recognized him.  Pale and worn, he had ruddy spots on his cheeks and forehead that spoke of incipient fever.  He had absolutely no business contemplating leaving this room, let alone the estate.

I shook my head violently, squeezing my eye shut, hoping that my rejection of the idea of windmills, flour mills and trips to Chichester would make itself plain.

“Holmes, if you do not rise from the bed and come to breakfast, I shall be on my way to Chichester and the windmills without you. It is a beautiful day, and I must be out and about in it or lose my sanity.  Go or stay it is up to you, but I shall be in the dining room, breaking my fast, and leaving within the hour.”

The hand on my back withdrew and the mattress rose fractionally as Watson stood.

My dearest doctor had ever called me stubborn and unbending,  but never seemed to realize that in those “virtues” I could look to him as teacher and expert.  I shot off the bed and hastened to the wardrobe.  Watson was dressed for his excursion; I had but minutes to catch up.

_Watson:_

The journey to the windmills was an enjoyable one.  Mycroft possessed a fine landau carriage that allowed us to enjoy the fresh air and warm breeze to absolute maximum.

Holmes had been remarkably loath to leave his —our— bed this morning, but even this was a cause for celebration.  When the mood was on him to lie-a-bed he had ever been an immovable object, so that aspect was exceedingly familiar.

And I was aware that he’d stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, working the clocks, the evidence was in one finished item out of the five, set quite apart from the rest as had been his habit at Pall Mall. Where I might have worried about his return to middle-of-the-night restlessness that had so plagued him in London, this instance had a different feel about  it. Where that tendency had been aimless and restless, driven by a body wracked by fever and a distracted mind, there was purpose to last night’s activity and a utility to it that set it apart. 

And too, he’d done what he’d always done, stayed up, not arisen from his rest to take up the clockwork repair.  A subtle difference perhaps, but significant to one who knew him so well, this a habit of old restored, wonderfully, not a worrisome symptom of something more deeply amiss; the devil, as ever, in the details.

I was aware of his concern for me.  It evidenced itself in diverse ways, starting with being tucked in the night before and continuing to this morning when, by signs and plaintive looks he had attempted to convince me to stay indoors and at my ease.

Another time and in different circumstances, I might have yielded to his desires. However, we were so close to a final breakthrough in his state and I felt so strongly that  another outing could bring about further miracles I was more than willing to overlook whatever small discomfort  I was feeling.  And truth of the matter was that I had been tied to doing only what I was expected, only what I ought and not what I wanted for so long, that I was pining to be out.  I wanted to be away from reminders of grief and death, of guilt and responsibility.  I needed to be free to embrace a sunny day, warm weather, the blessed company of my dearest and vibrant life in all its expressions. This for all it was merely a sightseeing tour represented that to me and more.

We left Gladstone behind, thinking that he might not be welcomed as our third in some places that we might visit in the town.  I was just as glad, considering that minding my dearest Holmes was probably all I could manage.  And the dear beast had been so comfortable, stretched out before our bedroom fire; it seemed a shame to disturb him.  One of Mycroft’s footmen would see to his constitutional needs during our absence 

Once arrived at the twin—though not really that, they were of two different types—windmills, I felt certain that the somewhat long side trip –though taken at a brisk pace by Mycroft’s expert coachman-- was worth any cost.  Holmes was immediately drawn to the power of the massive sail arms, intrigued by the machinery that here harnessed the power of another natural element, the wind, to the production of flour.

The miller and his son were not yet available, but we were given a short tour of the enterprise by the miller’s wife, Mrs. Alder – Janet– who informed us cheerily and with good humor of something of the history of the two structures, their construction and capacity.  She especially recommended a view from the ridge, but although my Holmes was much restored physically, he was as yet somewhat fragile in his energy reserves—and the idea of a climb, however gentle, was also more than a bit beyond me.  I would make sure we returned another time, to take in that vista together.

I stayed close by my beloved, never venturing far from his side; even though every nook that offered a place to sit or to lean and take one’s body weight off for a moment called to me like a fabled siren enticing a sailor onto rocky shoals.

It was a mark of Holmes’s fascination that he paid far more attention to the great clock-like workings of the mill than he did his own safety or stamina, and more than once I found myself reaching out to restrain him a bit, to steady him when he overestimated himself.  He was so wondrously improved it was delightful to see and acknowledge, but the underlying truth was that it would be months yet before he fully regained his full physical powers once more and I could completely –if that were ever possible! – relax my guard.

I could tell his words were very close now, could feel them straining to break out and be free.  I did my best to anticipate questions he might normally have asked to save him any self conscious, struggling moment.  I like to think that the miller’s wife was ignorant of my beloved’s disability, that I filled the conversational void adequately enough that no notice was taken.

By the time we returned to the carriage, I must admit—as entranced as I was by the beauty of the setting and desirous to see more of it, I was feeling a bit of the strain, and submitted to Holmes fussing over me and handing me into the landau with a renewed and touching concern.

“I’m perfectly fine, dearest boy,” I assured, patting the hand that rested heavily on my arm and looking into the deep brown eyes so filled with warmth –how could I ever have once thought them cold and dissecting?  “We shall see what we can of Chichester from the carriage at first.  I shall regain myself in no time.”

Holmes sighed, tossed me an exasperated look, but his hand remained on my arm and I was grateful, for this small intimacy we could maintain in public first and foremost, and for the very fact that he was mindful enough to be taking an interest in the world about him once more.

I had thought to stroll along the lovely canals so near the town and so inviting for a pleasant amble, but must admit to being somewhat relieved when Holmes indicated silently  that he himself did not feel up to such an exertion. I suspected that was less concern for himself than it was me, but truth be told I was feeling the effects of our windmill tour and the vigorous carriage trip to and from.

We likewise eschewed a closer examination of the town’s Cathedral, contenting ourselves to viewing the grand 12th century edifice from a distance, and bypassed a leisurely tour of the Chichester Cross, the Corn Exchange and Butter Markets, promising ourselves to return at a later date to examine their charms more closely. 

I did finally signal the coachman to stop when I spied a small clockmaker’s shop and a nearby tea room.  I thought that Holmes would be fascinated by the former, and by this time, breakfast a dim memory, I was feeling peckish enough that I was craving tea and at least a light luncheon.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

John Hamish Watson, _Medicinae Doctore _is quite easily the most aggravating individual that ever drove a fellow lodger and lover to distraction.

He undoubtedly was quite proud of himself for the _fait accompli _of the windmills, the sight of which had me so immediately captivated that I quite forgot my irritation at his continuing negligence of his own health for the better part of an hour at least.  It was frustrating in the extreme to realize how easily I might be manipulated by my blithe and darling boy, and as we left the great wind driven mills in our wake, I was fuming at his complete and utter disregard of what was good for him.

He thought, perhaps, that I was so far gone with fascination that I had not seen him leaning against every wall, chair or railing that availed itself during our tour, or notice that his breath was short at even the slightest exertion.  No doubt my loss of my words had rendered me blind as well, unable to see the deathly pallor that continued to be the predominant characteristic of his otherwise handsome face!

And he had the audacity—the sheer _effrontery_—to proclaim himself “perfectly fine” after I had to bodily heft him up into the landau!

Had I regained my speech, I would have ordered the coachman to return to the estate forthwith.  But I had not and could not.

I was not above exercising my flair for the dramatic when it came to the suggestion of an amble along the picturesque canals near the town.  Since vehement cursing was not an option, I instead approximated a near swoon at the very suggestion.  I had no doubt that if we were to venture, however slowly and carefully near any body of water, I’d soon be fishing a completely insensible Watson from its depths.

I was able, at least, to win the war of the gazetteer, as Watson rattled off proposed tours of the Cathedral; the Corn Exchange and so forth with complete and utter sincerity and cheerfulness.  Pigs would fly before that occurred _this_ day at least!

When he ordered the coachman to stop in front of a row of shops, I was so beside myself with frustration that I was considering if I possessed enough strength to land a blow on that fine, square and manly jaw to affect a knockout punch.  I could then at least, have him tossed into the landau and hauled him back to the estate before he regained his wits.

He spared himself assault—narrowly— by indicating how hungry he was, breakfast being so long ago now after the two hour round trip to the windmills and our rolling tour of the town sites; gesturing towards a nearby tea room.  I could not very well be the cause of my beloved being reduced to the privations of starvation, but my surprise and upset might be imagined when he announced a slight detour first.

The canny devil – of all the shops in the town – had located a clockmaker, and quite in spite of myself, desirous of inspecting some similar clockworks to the ones I was working on in our rooms, I acquiesced to his small side expedition.

The ticking of vast number of clocks, their musical chiming and infinite variety both captivated and relaxed me.  My frustration with Watson and with circumstances that had so altered my ability to communicate melted away quite against my will. I must have wandered the shop for three quarters of an hour, spellbound, before I realized that my dearest doctor was wearing the pinched look of the headache sufferer, and had, whilst I’d been lost in the joys of immersion in an entire shop full of intricate machinery, grown even more wan.

Confrontation seemed counterproductive, so tipping my hat to the proprietor, who must have been disappointed that such a leisurely amble through his business had yielded no sales, I looped my arm through Watson’s and hustled him to the tea room.

I appropriated a table and pressed Watson down in a chair, without waiting for the formality of being escorted by a server.  I rather imperiously gestured for attention – a masterful presence has its uses – and quite soon Watson was being plied with tea and had ordered a light repast for the both of us.

I so wanted to speak, and I tried manfully to make it happen as we waited for the food to be delivered.  Whilst I could produce some inarticulate sounds, I could not seem to break through the barrier between brain and tongue, even though I sensed the presence of a veritable dictionary of words just out of my reach. 

I finally _mouthed_\--gesturing at my pocket watch--what I hoped was the correct formation for the words “thank you”.  I must have been somewhat successful, for Watson beamed at me.

“Do not fret, you are so close now, the words will come, I promise you.”  He said gently, patting my hand, “And the clockmakers?  It was my pleasure Holmes. Entirely! To see the joyful fascination on your features in that shop was thanks enough.”

The most frustrating man to walk the earth, he who could disarm me, even in his present horribly ailing state with these words and gestures!

Tea was delivered and drank, our food placed before us. Watson was able to do a credible job with his victuals at least, small miracles be granted.  Once the meal was concluded, even Watson admitted to being in no further mood for seeing the sights of the town.  It was a great relief that when we crawled back into the landau, he ordered the coachman to return us home.

I was counting myself fortunate that we’d not been diverted to any further Chichesterian charms on the return trip when Watson ordered the coachman to continue to the stables, rather than deposit us at the main entrance to Mycroft’s mansion.

“I would like to see the folly, Holmes.  It is between the stables and the house, is it not?  Luncheon has remarkably restored me; surely we can spare a few steps out of our way?”

It is impossible to counter a command when the coachman has his back to you and your voice is not your own to bid. The carriage rolled onward to the stables implacably.

I sank my head briefly in my hands as Watson grinned his triumph, making some small comment about wanting to contrast the workings of Mycroft’s folly mill against the larger flour mill we had seen today.

I scrambled out of the carriage, barely ahead of him, offering him a hand-down once we stopped.  The bull-headed idiot thanked me merrily, stood for a moment as the coachman drove closer to the stables, then began to move in the direction of the folly.

It was one of the vagaries of fate that while some universal intelligence generally looks out for the weak-minded and infirm, said Being sometimes has his attention drawn elsewhere. I suspect He expects medical doctors to know better...

I was skipping to catch up when, rather like a puppet the strings of which have been cut all at once, my darling Watson dropped to the ground.

I would have caught him and eased him to the ground; I had been poised to do this very thing this entire day, but for the fact that he had outpaced me.  I threw my body into a dead run and slid on the grass down next to where he lay.

“W-Wa…”  I stammered ineffectually, grabbing him up in my arms and pulling his head and shoulders against my thighs where I knelt at his head.  He was deeply insensible.

Naturally, we were far enough from the stables that no one had witnessed his precipitous  drop and looking frantically around me, I could see no one—not one stable hand, or groundskeeper or laundry maid…anywhere.

I laid a hand on my darling’s forehead, not surprised to find that it was hot, the fever I had predicted this morning from the small precursors having arrived with the force of a blast furnace.

I ran my hand down his neck, felt the pulse at the major veins in there.  Fast, much too fast…

There was nothing at hand to throw, even if I had possessed the strength to lob a rock at one of the windows of the ground floor of the house.

I could not leave Watson, not even to summon help, I could no more leave him lying alone and helpless on the grass in the full sun than I could fly. 

I had but one choice.

I threw back my head and screamed out a sound, ungodly and inarticulate, that must, I prayed, garner the attention of someone on these grounds, no matter how invisible.  I keened and wailed and put all my soul into making the sound as ghastly and surreal as possible.

Blessedly, it had the desired effect.

Within moments we were overrun by groundsmen, maids, the coachman, stable hands and even the butler from the house.  It took them but a few seconds to comprehend the situation, and heft my dearest up in their arms.

The butler took immediate command, announcing loudly, “Take the doctor to my sitting room!”

I kept hold of one of Watson’s hands—clammy and cold in spite of the fever coursing through him, as he was borne into the house and laid out on a settee in the butler’s rooms.

There was much clucking and calling for water and towels, and as impossible as it was, I saw that my brother must be summoned. He would see that order was imposed on this well meaning chaos, that the doctor from the town was summoned at once.

I ran from the room, my heart lodged so high in my throat that I thought I would choke and pass out myself before I ever reached Mycroft’s study on the first floor.  Without ceremony I broke through oaken doors and threw myself across the room, planting my fists on the leading edge of my brother’s desk with a resounding bang.

He looked up, startled at first, then shocked and frightened by what must have been my wild and distressed aspect. I gestured wildly for him to come, even as I forced my heart back down into my chest and gulped great lungfuls of air.

“Sherlock! What is wrong? Where is Watson?”  He shot to his feet and rounded the desk, coming to take me by both of my shoulders.  His touch was gentle and concerned, and I know he must have the idea that I was in the middle of some strange fit or a relapse into whatever emotional breakdown had rendered me mute.

I pulled at him, attempting to drag him across the room.  He was immovable when he chose to be, outweighing me and taller than myself. His own frustration grew as exponentially as my own, he obviously wanted desperately to help but did not understand my frantic movements.

“Brother!  I don’t understand.  Words, Sherlock! Use your words!!”  He cried in complete and utter frustration.

“W-Watson!!”  I yelled, grinding out the word through what seemed like ground glass in my throat.  “C-Come q-quickly! W-Watson!  C-collapsed!  Please, Mycroft, come help!”  The words were strained, broken, utterly lacking in my customary eloquence, but they were words.  I was startled in spite of myself.

My brother confounded me by enfolding me in a bear hug and kissing me.  I fought him off valiantly.  If my brother had lost his wits, we were all lost!

“T-there is no t-time for t-that!” I snapped imperiously, “We need a doctor! Now!” I broke his hold on me and grabbed him by the arms, hastening him far past his normal top speed down the stairs and into the butler’s rooms.

_Mycroft:_

I imposed immediate order on the pandemonium that was raging in the butler’s sitting room, dispatching one of the stable hands to summon the doctor, while my brother dashed back to his beloved’s side. 

Watson was deeply insensible, his collar and cuffs had been loosened, his cravat removed, waistcoat unbuttoned, a cool cloth pressed against his forehead.  He was breathing moderately well and seemed in no pain, just profoundly unconscious.

I cannot say I was surprised or shocked by the sight of him, I had been expecting something similar, and was inordinately grateful that the inevitable had occurred close to home and not in the middle of Chichester.  Whilst that might have gained Watson more prompt medical attention than a collapse here at the estate, it would have done Sherlock no good at all and would have robbed me of hearing the first golden words from my brother’s throat in too long.

I supervised the poor doctor’s removal to the rooms he shared with my brother, my butler and a footman settling Watson on the bed and making short order of all but his small clothes.

Sherlock hovered, one of Watson’s hands in his the entire trip from the ground floor to his second floor apartment,  never more than inches away as Watson was settled on the bed and made comfortable.

Once the servants withdrew, my brother launched into a tirade that would have been amusing, had the situation not been so serious, and that amazing voice stilled for so long. As it was I gloried in hearing the somewhat rusty and broken vocalizations, as one who has been deprived of water regards a sudden abundance of it.

“I w-anted you to take it easy. To s-stay abed! But N-no!  Not the all knowing and wise Doctor John Hamish W-watson!  ‘I must be out in the fresh air and sunshine!’ Well, look at where it has gotten you!”  Sherlock was ranting at the still insensible Doctor Watson, words pouring forth in a veritable deluge, albeit somewhat broken up by pauses and a slight stutter—all to be expected after such a long period of disuse.

“No! _Y-you_ have to go see windmills! Go for carriage rides driven by mad coachmen! Drag me into clock shops!”

“Drag you?”  Watson spoke without opening his eyes, “when you saw the bloody storefront you practically dragged ME into it. Like a birddog on the scent!”

“Shut up, Watson!”  Sherlock responded, automatically, then seeing that Watson had revived, leaning closer, his affectionate expression at odds with the monologue he still kept up. “I’m not finished being angry with you!”

Watson smiled and opened his eyes.  “You’re talking!” He marveled, the blue eyes so profoundly tender that I found myself looking away from their intense regard.

"Have I told you lately Watson, that your gift for stating the obvious remains unequaled?"  My brother placed a hand to the side of Watson’s face, stroking gently.

“Your speaking was not obvious earlier! You cannot expect me not to comment about it after—”

“I can and do expect you to be quiet and rest, dearest. Now, quiet!!!”

I could not help myself, the bickering and banter was so much what had been normal for this pair, that my mouth widened out into a grin that split my face in two.  “Just like old times!”  I commented aloud.

“Did you send for the doctor? Or are you just standing around grinning like a loon to no good end?”  My brother shot a baleful glare in my direction.

“I sent for him the moment we arrived in the butler’s sitting room, Brother! You were too beside yourself with panic to notice! Give the man time to get here!”

“No! I’m fine!  I don’t need a doctor!”  Watson protested, attempting to lever himself up onto his elbows.  He was immediately pressed down by my brother who then moved on to fluffing the pillow around the poor doctor’s recumbent head, and drawing the bedclothes up closer about him. 

“Fine?  You call being felled like a tree on the way to the folly being FINE?” Sherlock responded with a vehemence that would have made a lesser man than John Watson cringe in abject terror.  “You are ill man!  Ill! And have been for days! Never mind you blithely ignore your own infirmity out of some bullheaded, misbegotten healing instinct!  You will have a doctor in attendance and you will do everything he says!”

“Holmes—”

“Don’t ‘Holmes’ me!” Sherlock stalked away from the bed, snatching Watson’s medical bag from the wardrobe with one hand and gathering up a water pitcher and glass with another.  He returned to his charge summarily, pulling a thermometer out of the bag after pouring a glass of water and setting it down on the bedside stand.  “Temperature first! Then water.”

“You’d know about that—ulp…” Watson’s reminder to my brother that he had done more than his share of tricks with a thermometer and a glass of water was pre-empted by the thrusting of the medical device into Watson’s mouth.  My sibling gently eased  his lover’s jaw closed around it.

“You have underestimated the depth of my anger and frustration with your obstreperous behavior Watson! You are going to lay there quietly and do exactly as the doctor says!  I don't care if he wants you to drink every vile concoction he can make!  You wouldn't listen to me, and yes, I know I didn't say anything, I couldn’t and that's beside the point!  You should have known what I was going to say!  And now look where you are!"

Watson could do little but assume a put upon expression and roll his eyes. Eyes that with the enforced silence of the thermometer placement began to droop and which finally slid closed entirely.

The thermometer was removed and handed to me to read, even as Watson emitted a soft snore, his lips curled into a sweet smile.

“One hundred two degrees.” I announced.  Sherlock had ever had trouble with small print and thermometer mercury.

“Unacceptable!  I am not accustomed to people falling into a doze when I am lecturing them.”  My brother subsumed his immediate stricken look of worry into yet another verbal tirade.

“Sherlock, not five minutes ago you lectured him for not getting enough rest, now you want him awake?  Make up your mind!”  I reproached.

“I will make up my mind after I’m done giving Watson a piece of it! He hasn’t had his water yet. And well, it is just rude!”  My brother lapsed into silence for a moment, petting the hand he had taken once more in his own. 

“He will be all right won’t he, Mycroft?”  Sherlock asked mournfully, his restored voice as small and vulnerable as I think I had ever heard it.  “Tell me he will be all right!”

I moved to stand beside my brother where he perched on the edge of Watson’s bed.  Placing my hands on his slender shoulders, I squeezed reassuringly.

“He will, Brother.  I think you both will be now.”

 

The doctor came, my brother refusing to leave the room as Watson was examined. The patient was pronounced in a state of complete exhaustion, bed rest, nourishing meals and freedom from stress were commanded.

No vile concoctions were ordered or advised, merely a healthsome diet and as much in the way of fluids as the patient could tolerate. 

I left my brother sitting at his beloved’s bedside, the pair gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, Sherlock abandoning his verbal abuse in respect of the doctor’s strictures against the patient being subjected to “undue agitation”.  It was my own considered opinion that no amount of haranguing could ruffle Watson’s genuine delight at my brother’s regained speech; but to his credit though his voice must have been near to worn out by overuse by this time, Sherlock kept up a steady patter of soothing conversation until his beloved surrendered to the healing arms of deep and restful sleep.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

It was the most profoundly grateful moment of my life when the doctor—the very same man who had given me such good care when I had recuperated here some months ago after being set upon by Moriarty’s thugs—pronounced Watson capable of a full and lasting recovery after several days of rest and recuperation. 

My heart was so full, that while my dearest one slept, I pulled a sheet of parchment from the room’s writing desk and clearing a space off on my clock works table; I set about penning my own sonnet in answer to his own. The words had been gathering in my mind ever since Watson had read his ode to me the night before. The words had unconsciously fallen into place as I worked my clocks late into the night.

That I am less a poet than my beloved was an inescapable fact, and yet, with his unstinting love and generous soul as my beacon--as well as several hours of false starts and several sheets of fresh parchment--I was somehow able  to adequately express what was in the fullness of my heart.

I set aside my effort, and turned to my clocks.

“Holmes,” the voice of my beloved interrupted my concentration some minutes later.  “Come to bed.”

I thought at first I had fantasized those words, Watson should not be awake, a small injection by the doctor had seen to that.  But I turned in my chair and saw that my dearest Watson _was_ awake, propped up on pillows, his beautiful blue eyes looking at me with undisguised concern.

“You need your rest,” I admonished quietly.  “Go back to sleep.”

“You need your rest too.” My dearest doctor stated with inarguable certitude.

“I feel perfectly fine, Watson!”  I responded, fondly exasperated.  It was just this same single minded focus on the state of _my_ health that had led to the ruination of his own. If only I could remind him of that!  But I had promised not to add to his burden of strain.

“You were up half of last night working on the clocks. Then, I woke you out of a sound sleep and dragged your over half of west Sussex.  If you are perfectly fine, then so I am and I might as well get up and join you…”  The stubborn man threw back the bedclothes and made as though to rise! 

I sailed across the room and put a stop to his idiocy, folding the sheet and blankets back over his feverish form, shaking a stern finger in his face.

“If I come to bed, will you promise to go to sleep and stop this infernal, overprotective obsession with my health and concentrate solely on your own?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, pinning the bedding in place to prevent a repetition of his high-handed behavior. 

“I love you Holmes! I can promise no such thing!  As long as I draw breath I will ever be concerned with your health and wellbeing!”  Watson proclaimed, his words such a perfect litany of love and devotion, I was nearly unmanned on the very spot.

Ashamed of my weakness I got up, intent on resuming my seat, working on the clocks.  I might have my voice back, but here were gaps in my memory.  I knew that in working the gears and levers of the timepieces, I could reclaim more of what I had lost.

“Please, dearest.  I will rest better with you beside me.  We can both rest and recover together.”  Watson spoke again.

I hesitated, picking up my sheet of parchment, then laying it back down again.  I removed my shoes, trousers, collar and shirt, arranging each over the back of the chair.  I picked up the piece of paper once more and crossed to the bed.

“I do this,” I said, slipping under the covers next to my beloved, “only because _you_ need to rest.  _I_ feel perfectly fine.  Understood?”

“Understood, Holmes.”  Watson replied and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Good.  Now that is settled, I have something here that I would read to you.  And after I read it to you, I want you to close your eyes and go to sleep. Do you agree?”

“What—” Watson exclaimed, curiosity overriding common sense, no doubt.  I gathered him in my arms, placing a finger over those eminently kissable lips, restraining my desire to cover the full mouth with my own.  Watson needed to be well before any such intentions were carried through.

 There would yet be time. All the time in the world, blessedly.

“Do you agree?”  I repeated sternly, removing my finger experimentally.

“Yes.  I agree.”  Watson leaned his head against my own, and sighed his surrender. 

“Good.  Now be quiet and listen very carefully.  I call this, ‘Love’s Eloquence’:

_“For JHW, whose heart is a poet’s, from SH, whose heart  
Learns daily from that very source. May intention serve where skill is lacking._

“To find that words have fled, and silence cold  
As adamantine walls descends to close  
My mouth; that nothing therefore can be told  
Of pain or love?  That grief is as the rose  
Has thorns, an agony on beauty’s edge.  
We were so near to peace, and my heart lay  
Open to wonder, life and you. a pledge  
I willed to offer, that life from herein may  
Be mutual joy.  I had perforce to speak  
With eye and hand, and eloquence from poor  
and desperate gesture. And though still weak  
in voice, I write my love instead.  A door  
has opened to us, all we hold dear and true  
is here . I walk there, hand in hand with you.”

 

There was, on the conclusion of my recitation, an absolute silence, and for a moment I feared that I had not regained the mastery over words that I had thought I had.

Then wonderingly,  I became aware of a stifled sob, and the wetness of tears on the cheek pressed so close to mine.

“Oh dearest!  I did not mean to upset you!”  I fussed, petting his face with my free hand.  Disgusted with myself, I made to crumple the paper from which I had read aloud, only to have Watson’s shaking hand shoot out and prevent the action.

“NO!” he cried.  “No!  If you crush that paper, you crush my heart with it!”

I froze.

“Do you hear me Holmes?  That was exquisite… I have no words to explain what it means to me, but please, do not destroy such a thing of beauty,  these wonderful words from your heart and soul!  They are too precious to me!”  His voice was beseeching, I could no more resist that tone than I could touch the moon.

He removed the parchment from my hand and in perfect recreation of my own mute actions when he had read his own sonnet to me, drew the document first to his lips and then to his heart.

And suddenly I was sobbing, my tears mingling with his.

We lost ourselves utterly in the comfort of each other’s arms, and then to the healing depths of sleep.

 

I roused some hours later, Watson yet asleep in my arms.  I watched him doze for many long minutes, astounded, enchanted and enthralled that this beautiful and loving man was mine, for now and forever.

But I was as yet incomplete in my parts.  There was work yet for me to do. Ground to be regained.

Carefully, easing my slumbering lover deeper into the bedclothes as I did so, I slipped from the bed and returned to my work table.

The gears in the clock slid together perfectly.  A perfect whole which allowed the world to function.

 But remove one wheel, one screw, one mechanism, and the works ground to a halt. 

I felt my brain follow that thought, like a child chasing a moonbeam. Elusive, distant, and just beyond my grasp.

Watson had left, and my world had stopped. He had married, and every cog, every screw and mechanism had ceased to work.  I had eaten, and slept, and breathed, but my time had ceased to move forward.

Watson loved his wife.  I know he loved his wife.  Of course he made love to her.

And of course the natural outcome of marital relations was…

 Suddenly and shatteringly, I remembered, what I had endeavored so hard to forget…

**

 

 

Thanks to Nod bear for her “Love’s Eloquence:  A Sonnet for JHW from SH” used with permission.


	41. "Frailty"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done, about two more chapters to go. This chapter was cowritten with Piplover (Chapter 39 proper), my contribution is limited to the chapter prologue, and a bit of "tarting up" at the end.

 

**Finality:**

**Chapter 39: “Frailty”**

By Piplover

_With a small contribution by  
L.A. Adolf  (chapter prologue)_

 

_Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we:  
For such as we are made of, such we be._

_William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream_

** _Prologue_ ** _:_

_Sherlock Holmes:_

The mantel clock I’d been working on landed on the table with a muted thump.

The memory came back sharp and strong.

_Mary Morstan had died of massive hemorrhage as the result of an undiagnosed ectopic pregnancy._

My hands lay on the table, palms up. I lifted one of them, drawing my index finger along the border of the dressing that covered my left forearm.

Watson had changed the bandage just the night before, pleased with the progress in healing I now recalled.  He would have done so again this evening, had not he been ill himself.  

I had forgotten that this wound existed, and how it came to be. Until just now.

Reading clinical words on a report of autopsy, hearing the bitter words of Mary Watson’s parents—my world had shattered-- all sensations and sensibilities thrown to the four winds. I’d raked a hypodermic across my arm—to force myself to feel something—anything—to prove that I had not dissolved into discrete atoms with the horror of the knowledge.

I loosened the stark white bandage, unwinding it until the arm was bare. In the light of the lamp by which I worked the clocks, I studied it.

It was little more than an angry red line now, with two areas still sporting the stitches that Watson had put there upon initial treatment. The stitches looked ready to come out, the skin they had once held together lightly scabbed around the sutures.

I took the small knife from my toolkit and carefully slit and removed them.

The scar that remained was well healed, and in the fullness of time, it would fade away, perhaps leaving behind a small raised white line, perhaps not.  Human skin is an odd entity, the most grievous of wounds can leave no lasting mark at all, the slightest hurts sometimes scarred forever.

Memory was like that.

I breathed slowly and evenly. I realized that my memory was like the scar on my arm. 

It had once been ugly and painful and I had reeled away from the sensation of it, ill with fever and weeks of debility. But I was stronger now. Made whole again by silence and wordlessness, by love and patience and by the best doctor of all next to my beloved Watson. Time.

I had, as yet, unresolved issues with the idea that Watson had nearly been what he had ever deserved most to be—a father.  His unstinting care of me for nearly a decade –even in my worst moods and in the face of my most grievous frailties proved him eminently qualified to parent.  He had deserved that chance.

Watson deserved to leave his legacy of intelligence, bravery, honor and kindness to the ages through the fruit of his loins—he was the best of all that was British. The empire could do worse than welcome his sons and daughters into its bosom.

Loving me would affect no such issue, of course. That alone was an unspeakable tragedy. I should—for all that I knew that he loved me, and in return was my only and all, my soul and my heart – set him free to love again. More productively. 

That would result in the greatest good for the greatest number, a concept I’d devoted my entire adult life to pursuing.

But I don’t know that having found this wondrous happiness –this sense of rightness and perfection no matter what country or creed made of a love between two of the same sex – that I could ever be selfless enough again to give him up.

I returned to the clocks, picking up the timepiece that I had inadvertently dropped, finding it none the worse for wear—in fact, if I could believe my eyes and ears, it was keeping slightly better time. No adjustment necessary here, just a minor oiling of the gears, a light cleaning would be sufficient.

And those repairs could wait for the morrow. 

I dimmed my lamp, tossed my bandage into a trash receptacle, and returned to the bed.

Watson slept on, sweetly, deeply, a small smile on his lips.

As I curled myself next to him, he turned, still asleep, and nuzzled into my neck.  I heard him whisper, still deep in slumber.

“Holmes…”  His voice was a perfect reflection of happiness and contentment, it was as though he recognized my scent. I did not doubt it, I was exquisitely tuned to his own, all my senses in fact, took as their focus and anchor, my darling Watson. 

I held him close, humming softly and he relaxed even more profoundly, making small noises of happiness in return.

I was so fortunate that the strain had not killed him –as it might have a lesser man. For whatever he might think or feel, my life at the price of his would have been no bargain at all.

**

**Chapter 39:**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

The next morning found Watson much improved, though he balked at the restrictions placed on him. It may have been petty, but I took a perverse delight in ordering to remain abed, forbidding him from leaving it save for the use of the water closet. He took my orders with good grace, and only once chided me on my own health.

When he had awakened, pressed tightly against me and my fingers running through his hair, he had taken a moment to realize the arm he caressed was bare of any bandage. Only after I had relented and allowed him to examine the nearly healed wound did he relax and allow me to take care of him. 

And for three days I did so. Three days of forcing Watson to rest, to recover his strength, to think of himself for once in his damn life. Three days that I lay beside him and read to him, as he had read to me. I brought him his food, and helped him shave, and stayed by his side until he would fall asleep deeply and soundly against my shoulder early in the night. Then I would set about my task, and allow the tight control I had clamped over my memories to release, working steadily through the timepieces on the desk until only one remained. 

The delicate work of gears and springs allowed my mind to process that which it had been unable to before. I have found the brain is a mystery, even in this age of knowledge.  In order to protect that which was the fundamental part of myself, I had to first lose everything else. The memories were fresh now, tender in my head.  Like a new bruise they ached, a slow, painful undertow that remained in the background of my thoughts.

But they were not the gaping slices in my psyche that they had been.  The shock of finding out Mary's true cause of death was a shadow now, standing behind me as I tried to find my way back into the light.

With Watson recovering, it was essential that he stay quiet, that he not be able to see these thoughts as they drifted around like so much sand left in the wake of a tide. For all that he wanted to protect me and save me from myself, this was one battle that he could not participate in. It was mine, and I did not know yet if I would win.

Watson would have been a father.

The thought kept chasing itself around my head as I slowly reassembled the most challenging of the clocks.  A little Watson to pass his knowledge, his time, his love onto. A small child that would have known a love larger and greater than I could ever imagine.

But that was not going to happen now.  Watson, like myself, would pass from this world without offspring, if he stayed with me.

I put the clock down slowly, my fingers tightening around the delicate screwdriver in my hands.

_If he stayed with me. _

I had never thought of children.  Not in the manner of creating them or raising them. I had my small army of Irregulars to look over, after all, and they were children enough for me. But Watson?  He had married, left me and my work behind to pursue the natural course of a man. And what more natural than to make love to a beautiful wife in the hope of fathering beautiful babies?

I admit to myself, in the quiet of the early hours, that I had never thought he would pass beyond my grasp. But as I put the last pieces together, screws and gears and metal all working together to make a perfect whole, I knew now that the outcome would have been inevitable had Mary lived. For all that he said he loved me, and I did not doubt him for a moment, he would have grown tired of me and the weight of my eccentricities.

My life had never been one of convention. I had accepted this from a very early age. I could not imagine a time when I was not chasing down criminals or solving crimes. But Watson?

I closed my eyes and sighed, laying my head to rest beside the remnants of the last clock. How could I ever have thought that he would be forever by my side?  Chasing after me, getting into mischief, dragged down to the lowest corners of London on my whim. 

God. _What I had I done? _

I felt the tears start and did not fight them. Not this time. Watson was sound asleep and there was no one to witness my shame save the faces of the clocks looking back at me. My shoulders shook, my insides twisted, and I bit savagely at my fist to stifle any noise I might make.

Silently my tears fell, dampening the cloth of my nightshirt, and with them came the exhausted peace of total surrender.

Watson had lost his chance at normalcy, at fatherhood, at being a respectable gentleman.  I was a poor substitute for all those, and I knew it.  But I would do my best to make it up to him, if only in a small way. Because, despite myself, I was a selfish bastard, and I loved him.

***

_Watson:_

It was still deeply night when I woke from a profound slumber, my dreams forgotten the moment my eyes blinked open. I could not discern at first what had stirred me from my sleep, but then I moved my hand automatically to check on Holmes beside me and found the sheets cool. 

I sat up, slowly, as I was still very weak despite my wishes otherwise, and surveyed the room. Though it was dark as pitch, my eyes were adjusted to the shadows, and I saw him, slumped over the worktable head resting on his arms. 

Sighing in exasperation I lit one of the bedside candles and shoved the blankets down, swinging my legs to the cold floor and quickly seeking my slippers. If he had been sitting there for any length of time he would be freezing! 

I placed the candle on the corner of the desk and gently shook his shoulder, bending over him as I softly called, “Holmes. Wake up, old boy; it’s time to come back to bed.”

He sighed softly, turning his face to me as he struggled from his clearly exhausted slumber, and that was when I saw. The sleeve of his nightshirt was damp where his cheek had rested, and tear tracks glimmered with a bittersweet sheen in the candlelight. 

My beloved had been crying. 

Something fierce struggled in my breast, fighting for release as I tried to contain my fear and rein in my scattered thoughts. 

“Holmes, wake up,” I said again, louder this time, and shook his shoulder a bit more strongly than before. 

This time he opened his eyes and blinked blurrily up at me, his confusion evident as he attempted to process where he was and what had happened. Then he blinked again, and his beloved features settled into a resigned mask that had my heart beating fast. 

Looking into his eyes I saw despair.

“Holmes,” I whispered, cleared my throat, and attempted to speak louder.  “Holmes, darling, what’s happened?  Why - what’s upset you?”

For a moment he was going to lie. I could see the false words forming in his mind, his eyes calculating and evasive.  He went so far as to open his mouth, though no words emerged as he met my gaze. His shoulders seemed to slump and his head drooped. 

“Holmes, please,” I whispered, begged, almost; fearing what he was about to say. 

_Please, _I silently begged God.  _Please, don’t let him have remembered.  He is not strong enough - I am not strong enough - to go through this again.  _

“What have you - what do you remember?” I asked, wishing I could keep the words sealed behind my lips, but they were given voice in spite of myself. 

He smiled sadly, turning his attention away from me to pick up the small screwdriver he had placed near his latest project, not looking up from the little mechanism in his hands.  His fingers maneuvered the slender tool easily, his attention seemingly completely focused.

"It's all right, old boy. You don't have to worry. I-I remember. And I'm not-I’m all right."

“Remember what?" I asked fearfully, my voice hoarse. 

He sighed, still not meeting my gaze, rolling the screwdriver between his fingers. 

“That Mrs. Watson died due to a - due to complications of a pregnancy. That, if things had turned out differently, you would have been a father."

He did look up then, not meeting my horrified stare, but gazing distantly over my shoulder, eyes unfocused.  "You would have been a wonderful father."

For a moment there was only silence between us, the weight of all that had been left unsaid settling about our shoulders.

“Yes."  Holmes turned his attention back to the clock. I was not offended. It was his refuge of precise logic and function when all the world was out of his control, and spoke more plainly to me of his mindset than any words he could utter.  "I am - I am so sorry, dear boy. More sorry than I can remember."

“For what?" I asked, breath catching in my throat. It felt as though my very heart were trying to escape. 

“For being all you have left, when-”

"_Stop!"_  My sudden outburst startled the both of us, but I could not let him continue his self-flagellation. “Stop! Holmes, stop. Please. I cannot bear to hear you say such things. You still don't understand, do you? Even after all this time!" 

My eyes burned, though I did not fight the emotion which filled them. "You have **NEVER** been a consolation prize. You were never second. I love you, damn it! Even if Mary had lived," I choked, my voice breaking even as I fought to continue. "And if I had become a father, then my decision still would have remained the same.  I could never have returned to that lie, Holmes. Never have put them through that. **_You_** are my life."

 “How?" Holmes demanded, finally abandoning the timepiece and turning his full attention to me. His eyes blazed wetly, confusion and anger darkening them to a near black. "How can you say such things?  Surely you must understand how much of a - of a burden I would have become! The censure and derision if you had-"

“_ENOUGH_!  For God's sake, enough! I will not let you sit there and think another damn moment that you could _ever_ be a burden to me. Never, Holmes! Not if I lived a thousand years or had a hundred children! You will always come first in my life, and if society doesn't like that, then we can run off and be hermits in the mountains together!" I thundered. 

Holmes stared at me, gape mouthed and speechless. I was too furious to notice, however, and continued, raising my voice as I did so in a preemptive strike to keep him from getting a word in. He had to understand!

“You think you see, Holmes, but you do not observe! From the moment I met you, I loved you. You pulled me up from the abyss that was my life, pulled me away from the common, everyday boredom that I thought I longed for and gave me something to live for again! If anyone is a millstone, it is me, pulling you down from the heights you soar so naturally!"

 “Don't ever say that!" Holmes whispered, seemingly too stunned to give full voice to his protest.

“Why not?" I demanded, moving to plant my hands firmly on the smooth, well worn tabletop with a thud that seemed to echo. "Tell me, damn it.  How the hell have I been anything other than a burden to you, when you are so much more than I will ever be! Tell me how I have ever helped you, when I can barely walk some days! Tell me, Holmes!"

“Because I need you!" Holmes roared. "Don't you see? Without you, those heights I soar so naturally towards would pull me further away, until I was burned by the sun! You ground me, Watson. You keep me tethered to the earth and give me a place to lay my head! You are nothing like a burden to me, and if you dare say such a thing again I will fight you, damn it!"

“Really? You take exception to my use of that word?" I growled angrily.

"You know I do!" he snapped, standing now so quickly that his chair toppled over. 

We were practically nose to nose, his breath warm and harsh against my chin as he glared up at me. 

“Then don't you ever, EVER, use it about yourself again!" I yelled, slamming his hands down on the table again for emphasis.  "Don't you ever think I am more valuable to you than you are to me, you sonofabitch!  And the next time you consider yourself a millstone, you think about your own words. If I tether you to the ground, you give me wings to fly beside you, and I would no more give them up than I would my arms or my legs. Without you, I am nothing, Holmes!"

I could see my words had startled him, but I was too angry, too exhausted and worn down to let him fight me on this. I would make him understand if it was the last thing I did. 

"Watson -"

I would not let him speak, could not let him speak yet. 

"Damn it, I'm talking now! _You_ will listen to _me_!"  I bellowed. 

He stepped back, startled at my fury, and would have tripped over the fallen chair if I had not gripped his wrist and kept him steady. I did not let him go as I continued, my voice leveling out as I did so.

"I tried. I did, Holmes. I loved Mary, though it hurts us both to say it. But she was to me what a raindrop is to a waterfall. A single drop of moisture cannot water a field, and I was parched, Holmes. I was barren without you in my life."

I could feel tears running freely down my face and made no move to erase them. My gaze was focused on Holmes, on the brown eyes that seemed too large and too vulnerable. I could not stop, though, not now, not when so much was at stake.   

“When I found out about Mary I was heartbroken, yes, because I did love her. And when I learned the reason why, I saw a thousand possibilities die with her. But that's all they were, Holmes. Possibilities that will never be realized. And I can live with that. I can. Because with you -" I paused, swallowing heavily. The words were like glass in my throat, tearing their way out. It hurt us both to speak them, but they were the truth, and deserved to be heard. "When I'm with you, I already have a million possibilities to choose from.  And that's enough for any man."

I could not continue. My heart beat rapidly, a fluttering quickness that left me trying to catch my breath as Holmes tentatively opened his mouth. I waited, and when he spoke, it felt as though his words were knives driven into my chest.

"You loved her enough to father a child," he whispered. 

I closed my eyes against the gaze that bore into me not with hatred or anger, but confusion and hurt so deep it seemed to come from his very soul. Guilt clawed away at my stomach, a twisting, churning sickness that had me wishing I had not eaten supper. But he deserved to know the truth, and God rest her, Mary would have wanted me to speak it.

"I made love to my wife after I found out what you had done, Holmes, running after Moriarty without me. But it was _you_ I was thinking of when I took her.  And take her I did, with little regard for her feelings or pleasure. I may have been with her physically, but we both knew where my heart lay. Mary understood, Holmes. It may have broken her heart, or she may have found peace with it. But she knew. And if she had lived, and given birth to a child, then she still would have known."

He stared at me, face blanched of all color, and if not for my grip about his wrist I think he may have sat down on the floor then and there. But he continued to stand, wonder and fear filling his too large eyes. 

“It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right,” I continued softly, easing my grasp slightly and leading him, stumbling, over to the bed where we both sat down heavily. I moved my hand to his and wound my fingers through his, squeezing tightly.  My gaze did not leave his.

“But you and I had already taken steps to remedy that. Perhaps I am to fault for her death, or perhaps God himself decided to teach me a lesson about wanting too much, about lying to myself and those I love. Either way, what is past is past and I cannot change it. I can only move forward."

Holmes stared at me, completely speechless, and for several minutes the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clocks, the sputtering of the candle, and our own, harsh breaths. 

"Do you regret it?" 

The words startled me as much as the breach of quiet. I stared directly into his eyes, willing him to read the truth in my own gaze. 

“Not a damn moment."

I let the words sink in, watching his face intently as color slowly returned to his cheeks and his fingers twitched in mine, as though uncertain whether to squeeze my hand or release it. But there was no way I was going to let him go, and held on steadily. When it became apparent he wasn’t going to say anything more, I continued.   

“I am who I am because of the decisions I've made, good or bad. This is me, Holmes. Broken. Fallen. All the pieces of myself are yours, to do with as you will. I don't know if I am a blessing or a curse on those I care for, but if you will have me, I am yours."

“A blessing," Holmes whispered, staring at me in incomprehension and wonder.  His eyes softened, and he covered our twined hands with his other.

 "A blessing that was bestowed upon me in a medical lab in St. Bart’s. I tried to turn from it, to run from what I was offered, and nearly destroyed us both. I, too, am broken, Watson. I don't know if anything can be salvaged from the horrible mess I've made of things, but if you are willing to try... If you still want me... I, too, have made mistakes.  And I can never ask your forgiveness enough.  But I am yours, dear boy. I am yours for however long you will have me, in this life and the next. And maybe, one day, I, too, will be able to accept my decisions."

I cupped Holmes's cheek in my unsteady free hand, moving so that our foreheads touched and our lips almost met. 

"We will take the broken edges that do not fit together and make them into something new.  We cannot live in the past, Holmes. Neither of us will survive if we do.  But we can create something here, now, and begin putting the parts of ourselves back where they belong. In each other's hands."

I had found peace in the arms of others before, and happiness in the arms of my wife.  But for the first time in my life, I found perfection in the arms of another, heaven under the delicate touch of the hand that stroked and coaxed that most private part of me into tumescent life.

 Holmes would have disputed the claim, had I told him so.  But then again, I had the rest of my life to convince him.

**


	42. "his first, last, everlasting day"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genteel smut ahoy!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 40 of 41 (plus a guest epilogue). Final chapter and epilogue to be posted soon.

 

**Finality:**

**Chapter 40: “his first, last, everlasting day”**

 

By L.A. Adolf

 

_Only our love hath no decay;  
This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,  
Running it never runs from us away, _

_But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day. _

_John Donne, The Anniversary_

 

 

_Mycroft:_

There were five clocks and one English bulldog sitting outside my brother’s room when I passed it on the fourth day of Dr. Watson’s confinement due to illness, and a note propped between the clocks.

_“Please do not disturb! Meals accepted on trays set outside door only until further notice. Please feed and walk Gladstone. We are fine, just...busy. S.H.”_

I stood alternately staring at the paper in my hand and smiling rather sappily at the closed door.

“Indeed!” I murmured, pocketing  the note, and calling Gladstone to heel. I proceeded to the dining room  by way of the kitchen where I would inform Cook of my brother’s request and have a footman oversee Gladstone’s care until my brother and his doctor were no longer “otherwise engaged”.

_Watson: _

I had awakened in the early hours of the morning to the lack of Holmes beside me, and to the grumbling growl of Gladstone.

I levered myself up in the bed, amused to see my dearest urging our dog toward the door.  Holmes had a mantel clock tucked under his arm, a folded note clenched in his teeth, and was unaware of my observation of him. 

He sat the clock on the floor outside the door, removed the paper from his mouth, then with a gentle but forceful push, got Gladstone out the door and into the hall, and then eased the door shut.

“Holmes?” I asked as he turned around and saw me watching him. “Whatever are you doing?”

He smiled broadly, divested himself of his nightshirt and raced back to the bed, diving into it and under the covers not unlike a playful puppy.

“Insuring our privacy,” he murmured, insinuating himself back into my arms, covering my mouth with his own, his exquisite hands exploring first my face, then my chest, tracing delicate, exploratory lines.

I had never considered that I would be the focus of the intense regard that my beloved Holmes turned onto all that he truly wished to study, but in the next moments I was subjected—most delightfully—to the full force of his singular powers.  It occurred to me that now that we were committed to each other fully he had determined to, in effect, imprint me fully on his senses and consciousness. 

I was explored, inch by inch. Tasted, touched, scented, my breathing and heartbeat assessed aurally—all the while under the deeply intense but adoring gaze of my darling. It was at once a humbling and yet exalting experience and bore with it a heavy responsibility, most willingly and gratefully embraced as my own.

I--and I alone-- held the precious treasure of Holmes’s heart, that most frangible commodity on earth.  I must never forget the delicacy of my charge, must ever treat it with the utmost care and devotion or face consequences more dire and tragic than anything we had experienced in this heretofore wretched year.

After such intense regard, I expected a verbal recapitulation of his study of me, and Holmes did not disappoint.  It does a man’s modesty no good at all to be likened to exalted beings and universal wonders, so, gently, carefully, I hushed my dearest darling, drawing his mouth to mine and drinking deeply of our love.

It never left my awareness that it was I who held the experience in our newly found intimacy and that as such, I held yet another sacred duty within my authority.

With all the love and devotion I felt, I set about schooling my brilliant-in-all-matters- save-this-one Holmes, in some of the physical expressions of our commitment.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I awakened for the second time this glorious day to the delicious sensation of being tangled in my darling’s arms and legs, my naked skin on fire where it touched his -- _everywhere _\--along the length and breadth of him. I had spent many hours earlier this morning worshipping him in his entirety, memorizing every inch of his person, exploring with all of my senses the beautifully unique being that was my adored Watson. He had, in turn, revealed to me the mysteries gained in his romantic experience –across _three_ continents! – introducing me to sensations of which I had never realized the human body capable.

Transported to ecstasy by my love’s devoted ministrations, I endeavored to prove myself an apt pupil.  Hours had been spent in the delicious give and take of intimate congress, until we lay, limp and sated, flush from our mutual exertions, falling into exhausted slumber.

This…

…this was the meeting not only of true minds and souls, but bodies in a physical expression of a love so deep, so hard won and sacrosanct that I was completely overcome.

All the assumptions I had made over a lifetime of voluntary asceticism had been shattered.  Heaven on earth _was_ possible, emotional connection was _not_ anathema to the higher reasoning abilities –if anything my wits had been sharpened by the experience!  I was not incapable of love, I was in fact capable of being completely transported and transformed by its wonders!

I had grown to manhood with the belief that I was nothing more than a curiosity, a freak of nature and with little to recommend myself beyond my intelligence. My own parents had found it impossible to love me. My only experience of the softer emotions originated with my brother, who in his own careful and circumscribed way had ever tried to convince me that the lack was not in me, but in them, who had lavished me with all the affection and devotion of which he himself was capable.

It was therefore, revelatory in the extreme to understand, finally and completely-- and on levels quite apart from the intellectual plane-- what it truly was to love and be loved, unconditionally and unstintingly by the great hearted wonder that was John Hamish Watson.

Who stirred against me now, humming my name in my ear, even as he drew me tighter in his arms.

“Rest, my darling, rest.” He whispered.

With his heartbeat as my lullaby, I did so.

 

_Watson:_

Surfacing into consciousness for the second time this superb day (or was it the third? I’d completely lost count) I was instantly aware of two things.

One, I was hungry.  And little wonder, neither Holmes nor myself had eaten since the night before.

The second, but by far the most important, how completely, devastatingly wonderful it was, the peace that was intrinsic in this moment to every part of me, the profound sense of relaxation and contentment waking to find Holmes in my arms.

He was slumbering still, dark lashes fanned upon wan cheeks, a look of peace and happiness on those much loved features that I could not remember seeing there in all the years of our partnership.  He had been peaceful and happy before, of course, but never to the degree I now perceived.

If some small part of me harbored any doubts about the path we had set ourselves upon, it vanished in that instant. If I had some small part in bringing this miracle about, I had well justified myself on this earth.  I had never wanted anything more than this for my beloved, that he could drink of  the tranquility and contentment he so deserved .

Carefully—reverently-- I reached out to lay my hand lightly on his forehead, completely and utterly overcome by an aching tenderness in my heart.

I yielded to the worried lover and the concerned physician, assaying his body temperature, listening to his breathing. I could not bend my head to his chest to note his heartbeat—at least not without awakening him-- so satisfied myself by detecting its rhythm in a pulse point on the fine white column of his neck.

Our lovemaking had been gentle and tentative, I had been insistent upon it. I knew with absolute certainty  that for all he was so much restored from his condition of only a few weeks prior, that there was still a considerable amount of recuperative time in his future. He would be susceptible to exhaustion, prone to enervation for months yet, and it was up to me to  zealously guard the vessel that contained his great soul.  He had ever pushed his corporeal self beyond its limitations when in the bloom of health; I could not trust him to transform however much I might cajole, beg and plead toward that end.

And in truth, I would not have him change.  His care, in all facets of his existence was my hallowed charge now, and I not only welcomed that duty, I would jealously guard it against any interference, including his own.

I loved my beloved as he was, his flaws and foibles my special joy, exasperation at his quirks my own secret delight. 

I smiled as he wriggled contentedly, wakefulness was near now, I could sense it.  I had always been attuned to him, but now, in the wake of the intimacies we had shared this wondrous morning, I seemed almost presentient in my awareness.

The brown eyes opened, enlivened by a light that humbled me, so powerful was the love shining in their depths.

 “Good morning, mother hen!  Do I pass inspection? Is my temperature normal?  My pulse steady?”  he chastised gently and with quiet amusement, indicating that he’d been closer to wakefulness for longer than I had imagined.

 We were so intimately connected now, I would wonder if one of us could sleep whilst the other was awake ever again.

“How do you feel, darling?” I asked, ignoring the subtle challenge in his questions.  “Any discomfort?”

“I feel wondrously fine, Watson.  As though I could take on all comers at the Punchbowl and emerge triumphant!” 

I grinned, recognizing a byproduct of intimate relations I’d felt a time or two myself.  “Not for many months yet, dearest. We should ring for lunch, it is past time you ate something.  And replenishing fluids would not come amiss.”  I smiled.

“Really Watson, you sound less the devoted lover than a medical professor this morning.”

“Afternoon.” I corrected.  “And I am both where you are concerned. You are my one and only patient now, expect to be doctored to within an inch of your tolerance. Daily.”

“You sold the practice then? I am sorry, I—“

I laid a finger gently on his lips.  “I sold nothing I was not ready to give up. And you need not be sorry for anything. I am not.”  I admonished.  Leaning closer, I planted a kiss on his pliant lips.

There was, I sensed, in the middle of that activity, a small disquietude that my darling was struggling to conceal. 

We had taken a massive leap in our relationship this day, perhaps, for all my care, it had been too much and he was concentrating on trifles such as the sale of my practice in an effort to dissemble.

“What is wrong?” I prompted, laying a hand on either side of the beloved face, my touch reverential and, I hoped, calming.

“Nothing Watson!  I just wish that you didn’t always have to lose everything that is important to you to be with me.”

“None of that, I haven’t the stamina to recapitulate our discussion of last night.  Being with you is all that is important to me, I will brook no more doubts or discussion on that score!  If you have seized upon this matter because I have presumed too much, forced upon you activity that you are not comfortable with or ready for, I demand you tell me right now.”

I was gifted with the most astonishing expression I think I have ever seen on those dear features.  My darling Holmes was caught between abject denial and helpless amusement.  His lips twitched with laughter, even while he assumed a mock stricken expression.

“Mother hen! I am NOT a_ woman_! I am NOT in the throes of a vaporous fit!”

“No, dearest boy, you aren't, but you are _my_ beloved and I know this is a drastic step for you. For anyone.”  I soothed, not willing to be diverted by his flippant remark.

His features settled down into a look of sweetest esteem.  “And you my darling, are the most gentle and considerate of lovers.  I am but a willing and eager instrument in your maestro’s hands, my strings yours to pluck to draw forth the most beautiful and wonderful music.”

For a man who had proclaimed himself no kind of poet, those words were the equal of any love ode in existence—at least to my ears.  But they were also baffling.

“And by that you mean?” I demanded with gentle exasperation.

“Less talking.  More plucking.”  Holmes breathed, reaching up to draw my head down towards his, stifling any further reaction on my part with a breath stealing kiss.

 

A rather desperate need for air broke into my ardent one’s diversionary tactic, and my stomach chose the same moment to rumble and announce its privation.

“Food and fluids,” I reminded my dearest Holmes breathlessly.  The resultant pout was charming.  “I am your doctor and that _is_ my prescription.”

“Oh! If you insist.  We must keep up YOUR strength, after all!” The brown eyes twinkled and in a flash my lover was up and off the bed, snatching his dressing gown from where it had been thrown the night before, donning it and opening the door cautiously. 

“Ah ha!”  Holmes announced triumphantly, bending to retrieve what turned out to be a tray from the floor.

The comestibles upon it were of the durable sort, all to the good since they’d probably sat in front of the door for several hours at least.  Fruit, bread, cheese, and it turned out, a bottle of champagne, still chilled in spite of the ice in its bucket having turned to water.  Holmes set the tray on the bed beside me, then crawled back under the covers.

It was one of the sweetest and most flavorful meals I had ever shared with Holmes, the first of our new understanding of each other.

“I really am fine, Watson.”  Holmes offered after several minutes of silence, during which we had filled our empty stomachs and decanted the champagne.  I carefully monitored how much went into each flute against the amount of food my beloved had ingested. 

“Not quite yet, but you will be.” I responded quietly.

“Fine words from someone who has so recently risen off his own sickbed!” Holmes commented without heat.

“My affliction was short term and never very serious, and yet it will indeed take me more time to recover from its effects.  You were desperately ill and suffered major setbacks, my dearest.  You have many more months of recovery and recuperation before you are able to return fully to the life you’ve been used to living.  If only out of love for me, I beg you remember that and not push yourself.”

There was fond exasperation in the gaze Holmes turned to me.  “I had thought never to return to Baker Street.  But you know that.” 

I nodded, and my expression must have been full of the pain of that memory, for Holmes reached out and stroked my face tenderly. 

“And now, if I understand correctly, you are telling me I should not contemplate a return in the near future.”  Holmes continued.

“To live, yes, but to practice your profession, not for many months yet. Active detective work must be out of the question until you’ve regained your full strength and health.”  I allowed.

Holmes nodded, if I had expected an argument, I was to be disappointed.

“I cannot but agree.  Save that Baker Street, without my practice, and even with your wondrous presence, will be an uneasy place to rest my head.  Also, I must reassess our collaboration.  Even before our advancement to the rapport we now share, I promised myself that should I ever be fortunate to find myself sharing your partnership again that I would no longer risk your life so wantonly as I have done in the past.”

“Holmes! You have never—” I protested. 

“Watson! I have! There are the ruins of a slaughterhouse in Nine Elms standing testament to that fact—” Holmes countered, angry this time.

“Any risk to my life I have accepted most happily in order to work beside you!”  I exclaimed hotly.

Holmes seemed poised to continue the disagreement, but something shifted in his expression, and his shoulders sagged.  “I will not mar the beauty of this day by arguing this matter with you.  The very fact that our emotions are still raw on this subject, makes my point for me.  We are, neither of us, ready to return to life as it was previously lived at 221B.  I propose, therefore, an alternative for your consideration.”

“Go on.”

“Mycroft will, of course, allow us the use of his estate long after he must return to the city. Which he soon will of course, now that I am once again in possession of my wits and he knows that he can consign my care to you. But I think we will eventually tire even of the charms this estate and West Sussex.”

“Yes. I can see that might be the case in a few weeks.” I was determined, whatever Holmes might suggest, that he remain in residence in this bucolic setting for a time yet.

“So, my dearest boy.  How do you feel about travelling?  First about this great country of ours, perhaps? Visiting those places we have always promised ourselves to explore, but never had the time to do so; then perhaps, Abroad?  Mycroft got his ‘Grand Tour’, I was not so fortunate. I think I should like to see some of those places I have not been as yet. Including where you saw Army service, if you have no objections?  At least-- India?”

I considered, sipping my champagne thoughtfully.  It was customary that the newly wedded took a celebratory excursion. God and country decreed that no matter how strong our commitment, that my beloved and I would ever be denied that status.  However, our private life, if kept private, was our concern alone.  It was only fitting that we should have our own form of “honeymoon”.

“I would like that, Holmes. Above all things.”  I responded warmly.

Holmes smiled at me, one of the dearest, most loving smiles I have ever seen on the face of anyone.  “Then it is settled. We shall take our time, recover our health.  And we shall travel.  We have all the time in the world to plan our itinerary.  If you are done eating, might I suggest something else?”

The bread, fruit and cheese _had_ vanished from the tray, and I was feeling replete with food.

“Of course, dearest!”  I exclaimed indulgently.

Holmes was suddenly in that rarest of states, discomfited and –did my eyes trick me? –being overtaken by a spreading blush.

“You would have us take things slowly, I know. But I know there is a level to our lovemaking that we have not yet achieved.  I should like very much to explore that unknown with you.” He said, softly, quietly, his eyes openly vulnerable.

I understood.

“I’m not sure, Holmes. That-- step will take careful preparation to avoid injury, and it may be more than you are ready for this early in our…relations.  It is not something to be taken lightly.” I whispered my objections.  As much as I yearned to lead my beloved into the next realm of our lovemaking, the very act itself it made us--who had devoted so much of our lives to the enforcement of the laws of the empire-- criminals.

“I know. I understand the ramifications which you do not voice, as well. I still want this, beloved.”

The eyes that met mine shone with such devotion and desire, I was helpless to deny his request.

I retrieved from my medical bag Mr. Cheeseborough’s ‘useful product’ and set about worshipping his body as I had but dreamt since realizing the depth of my love for him; my heart bursting with all the love and tenderness that this most formidable of men had ever engendered within me.

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

Shuddering with the power of release, ten times beyond any I had previously achieved, I was scattered, my disparate atoms fleeing before this exalted force which was equal to the explosion of a thousand stars.

Nearly insensible I collapsed, my beloved following me down, his warm weight my comfort and surcease, my ecstasy, my all!

I gasped for breath, willing my heart to remain in my chest, savoring the glorious rapture I had just experienced. 

Nothing had prepared me for this. Nothing.  I had no words by which to process this new experience, this riot of sensation. I was helpless, born along by its aftershocks, content beyond measure to go where this powerful current might take me.

I was distantly aware of my beloved withdrawing, turning his devoted attention to assuring no harm had been done, ever my savior and healer. I murmured nonsense sounds of reassurance, rolling away from gently probing hands, capturing him in turn in my own arms, easing his fears by small words and large gestures.  After a moment he sighed, relaxed and curled himself around me.

Quite in spite of himself, I think, he fell into slumber even as he spoke quietly of his own awed reaction to the power our ardor and sweetly of my nascent ability to satisfy as much as I myself was satisfied.

I was never happier to lose him to Morpheus’s embrace, he the more fragile of the two of us, whether he wished to acknowledge that fact or not.

I would have him understand, though it might take me untold time to do so that in matters such as these I was his equal in stamina and resilience; that our lovemaking strengthened and restored me;  that a full release of the passions we both so deeply felt would do no harm, but would instead fortify.

We had such a beautiful and vast future before us, striving for the transcendence of our devotion to each other, urging each other to ever more passionate expressions of our commitment. 

And yet, I must allow my beloved his anxiety and concern—they were so much intrinsic to who he was and I would have him—truly-- no other way.

Words did not exist to quantify the transformation I had just experienced in the arms of my darling, willing pupil to his expert tutelage.  My previous life seemed somehow empty and naïve in its rejection of closeness such as this, and whilst my blunders were a more common occurrence than anyone would think who knew me only through my Boswell’s memoirs, this was the most egregious of them all.

For once I could readily empathize with my sweetheart, who so often in our shared past had been cast in the role of learner to my teacher in matters of the macabre.  It was both humbling and exhilarating to realize that there was an entirety of experience awaiting my discovery at the skilled hands of my beloved tutor! And pleasure that I could, in turn, bestow upon him, for I wished nothing more than to reciprocate the perfect bliss with which I had been gifted.

I would ever after count this day-- this “first, last, everlasting day’-- as our anniversary, our initial meeting so many years ago at St. Barts merely prologue to this singular occasion, this wondrous span of hours spent in expression of our devotion.

 

My magnificent Watson’s brow drew together in his slumber—I reached out and stroked his forehead, easing the lines between his closed eyes, rejoicing at the small, happy murmur that escaped his splendid lips.

I was humbled by the thought that of all the good fortune I had experienced in life and profession, that the most astonishing and wonderful gift I now held slumbering in my arms.

Transported, transcended and transformed, I sighed, and drawing my beloved ever closer, I followed him into sleep.

**

 


	43. "Three years, two deaths and one resurrection..."

**Finality: Conclusion**

**Chapter 41 of 41: “three years, two deaths and one resurrection”**

 

_“The gates of hell are open night and day;  
Smooth the descent,  and easy is the way.  
But to return and view the cheerful skies;  
In this the task and mighty labor lies”_

_Virgil, The Aeniad_

 

_Watson:_

Dinner that evening of our perfect bliss was likewise delivered on a tray.  A large tray on a service cart containing several covered dishes which, when removed, revealed a hot several course meal.  And two envelopes.

The meal had been delivered to our rooms by way of a sharp knock that roused us both from the idyllic lethargy following our continued exertions, Holmes having proved himself a very apt pupil in the reciprocation of our latest level of intimacy. 

Famished from our eventful day, we threw ourselves upon the meal saving the mysterious missives for post prandial perusal.

Holmes, sprawled on the bed next to me, looking thoroughly debauched—as I suspect I also did-- sat up to read the note that bore his name.  Within seconds of opening the envelope he was falling against me in helpless laughter, a thoroughly delightful sound to my indulgent lover’s heart.

I sat my own letter aside, unread, and removed the other from my beloved’s loose grip.

It read:

_“Dearest Brother:_

_“I was wondering if I needed to inform Cook that you’d be taking your meals from a tray for yet another day?  Breakfast, understandable. Luncheon, remarkable but acceptable.  But dinner as well!  If this keeps up I shall have to lay in a supply of oysters!_

_“Pace yourself brother! I cannot be running back to tend to you every time you go into a swoon, especially from  ‘overexertion.’  And do have a care for Dr. Watson’s stamina, at this rate you are going to wear him completely out."_

I could not help myself, and was also immediately reduced to hilarity, the note was so perfectly Mycroft in tone and phrasing he might have been standing in the room delivering his admonishments in person.

Only after several minutes of mirth did I have the good manners to be mortified. Of course Mycroft was aware of our devotion to each other—so hard won—but it truly was another matter entirely to have such blatant evidence of his perception of our true activity set before me.

“Watson, have I ever told you how prettily you blush?” Holmes whispered in my ear, his voice as light and fondly teasing as I had ever heard it.

“No!”  I responded, feeling as though I should pull the bedclothes up over my head, even though we were completely alone.

Instead, I cleared my throat and turned my attention to the note bearing my name.

_“Dearest Doctor:_

_“Welcome to the family!_

_“We Holmes’ are a most definitely a rather sorry, eccentric lot.  We cannot help but be immensely elevated by your enfolding into our dwindling number._

_“Please understand my genuine happiness for the pair of you; I could not wish anything better for my brother than yourself.  I regard you with the greatest respect  and with all the fondness of a true brother-in-law. ut also be aware that if you break Sherlock’s heart again, there will be consequences._

_M.H.”_

I knew only too well there would be severe penalties should there be any further betrayal of my dearest. Not merely from his sibling, but from Providence —and myself—if I ever again violated the sacred trust of Holmes’s heart.

As was his wont, my beloved studied my face as I read the words on the paper. Whatever he saw prevented him from doing as I had and taking the note to read.

I would not want him upset with this brother.  I fully understood Mycroft’s warning to be truth with no malice, merely a statement of fact.  I answered the question in my darling’s expression simply.

“A welcome to the family from my new brother-in-law.”

Holmes smiled.  “Good old Mycroft.”

*

_Sherlock Holmes:_

We spent the remainder of the evening of our wondrous day quietly planning our immediate future.

Watson was firm in his insistence that we spend the next few weeks exploring the life of the leisure class at Mycroft’s estate, and I was, for once, happy to acquiesce to his wishes.  He, as ever, cited my need to recuperate more fully; I secretly understood that the same was true for his own health.  He was as wont to push himself beyond his own endurance as ever I was, and I still carried with me the memory of the frail war hero I’d first come to lodge with; memories vividly brought back to mind by his collapse of only a few days ago.

We lay in each other’s arms, musing over travel plans.  We determined that after we concluded our time here in Chichester we would return to London, albeit briefly to settle affairs and make preparations.  We would then embark on a tour of England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland that should occupy us for several weeks at minimum.

We would, we surmised, return to London again before continuing our journeying in the larger world, determining that our first destination be a country that neither of us had visited before.  In this way we might have the singular joy of seeing it together for the first time.  We made no hard and fast decision which country this should be, we had time to consider, to discuss and we were determined that no decision henceforth would be unilateral.

That would be an adjustment for one such as myself, but I was determined to honor my beloved, for now as never before, we were not two souls but one.

It was my special joy to watch as Watson dozed off in the late stages of our conversation, his face peaceful and relaxed as I had not seen him for too long.  Curled around him, gazing rapt, I ever wanted to see him thus and would hereafter devote myself towards that end.

**

_Watson:_

For all that we’d promised Mycroft our attendance at breakfast the following morning, we were late due to a not unusual first light resurgence of priapic energy.

Arriving arm and arm in the dining room, we found Mycroft already tucking into his breakfast. He threw us an amused and appraising glance as we loaded our plates from the chafing dishes on the sideboard.

 

_Mycroft:_

Although assured of their attendance at this morning’s breakfast, I had all but given up hope when, after a half hour, my brother and his doctor finally made an appearance.

The reason for the tardiness was immediately apparent, and not merely by the lingering albeit minor dishevelment of the pair, the self conscious flush on the face of Doctor Watson and the unrepentant smugness and  insouciance of my brother.  The latter was literally glowing, the former was reduced to violent blushes after less than a minute of observation. 

Ah youth.

I smiled to myself and continued my meal in silence, whilst the lovebirds loaded up plates and seated themselves more closely than was strictly necessary on the same side of the table. Whilst Sherlock had not been himself, it had become habit, with the escalation in their physical relations second nature.

Perhaps it would not be obvious to the casual observer, but the fact that my formerly somewhat touch-avoidant sibling was taking every opportunity to join hands and brush shoulders –all actions reciprocated by his beloved –was significant. As were the besotted looks the pair traded with each other as Watson smoothed a stray lock of his love’s hair behind his ear and Sherlock brushed a stray crumb from Watson’s cheek.  

Here in the safety of my country house, they could thus indulge, and I would not begrudge them a moment of their hard won harmony.  Too soon they would have to re-enter the larger world and become circumspect in their dealings, limited by what polite society would allow.

For myself, I could not be happier.  At long last my brother had in his possession all the happiness I had ever wished for him. Gone at long last would be the legacy of our parents’ –they should who should never have bred—malfeasance.  Sherlock finally understood what I had known from my first glimpse of him in his cradle, that he was a wonder, eminently loveable and deserving of all the best the world had to offer.

“Brother!  Stop playing with your food and eat!” 

I was startled from my distraction  by my brother’s teasing and playful tone.  Recalling a meal not that many days in the past, when I had harangued him similarly, I counted turnabout as fair play.  Yet I had a role to fulfill.

“Excuse me?”  I responded haughtily, picking up a spoon and making as though to load it with scrambled eggs. Anticipating my intent, Sherlock could be seen reaching for his own silver.

“Gentlemen!” Dr. Watson spoke warningly, “I call a truce! No artillery! Or I shall box both your ears!”

We all enjoyed a hearty laugh, then resumed our meal.  As the dishes were cleared away, and tea and coffee served, my brother and his doctor announced their future plans for travel—after a suitable period of extended recuperation, of course.  By now, both were radiant, almost incandescent as they regarded each other, leading me to believe that more—shall we say—recreation than recuperation would be going on. 

I was free now to return to London and my normal activities and routine, for the first time in months I felt secure in leaving my brother to his own devices and to his lover’s tender care.

But first, there was one more thing to arrange and I would send the wires today to initiate the invitations.

 

_Watson:_

We comported ourselves in a more seemly fashion for the next few days, content to engage in chaste activity during the day, although, at night, after dinner, brandy, cigars and pleasant conversation with Mycroft, we repaired to the privacy of our room and furthered our sensual explorations of each other.  Our bond, so strong and true continued to deepen.

It was hard to believe that it could be granted to mere mortals to touch so much of heaven, that love could expand the soul so immeasurably.

I had found my heart’s true contentment and joy and looking at my love, I saw that the same was true for Holmes.

We both regained strength with each other’s devotion to succor and sustain us. We went for carriage rides, explored a bit of Chichester proper.  We ambled about the estate.

We picnicked at the Folly, I marveling not only at the cunning water-driven mill but my darling Holmes’s continued fascination for it.  He showed me the grinding stones, engaged the water wheel, and demonstrated how grain was turned to flour. He recapitulated the names for the discrete elements of the mill—those first words that aided him in coming back to himself and to me. He ended his discourse with an explanation of the geologic composition of the grinding stones.

I stood listening, enchanted , for there was nothing more beautiful than my Holmes when his spirit was engaged, his mind clear and focused, his eyes alight with fascination.  I reached out as he fell to silence, taking his face in both my hands, reaching to tuck a stray lock of hair –now nearly restored to former length—up and off his forehead. I looked deeply into those expressive eyes.

“These, my darling,” I began carefully and with all the tenderness of which I was capable, “are millstones, and henceforth that word shall never pass your lips except in similar context.  You are my joy, my delight.  You give me life and restore my soul.  You are – our love is - a pearl of great price, born out of pain and suffering, a found treasure of the greatest beauty.  And like the merchant seeking fine pearls, I have willingly given over all I had to obtain it.” 

It is not often that Sherlock Holmes can be rendered speechless, least of all by myself, but in that moment and for many afterward—as we fell into each other’s embrace and made the sweetest love — he was.

 

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

We returned from the Folly in a state of dishevelment which had us bustling back to our rooms, intent on making ourselves presentable before dinner.  Having accomplished that end we were quite proud that for once that we were more than an hour early for the meal.

We repaired, my beloved Watson and I, to the library and had been there engaged in quiet conversation when a commotion in the hall attracted our attention.  As the professional detective that I am, I rose to investigate, waving Watson behind me.

It was unlikely that any danger could present itself here in my brother’s house, so rather than peep out the door, I instead threw it open to reveal…

…the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson and the inestimable Constable Clark.

Before I quite knew what I was about, our landlady fairly barreled into the room and threw her arms about me, followed by a grinning Clarky.

“Oh! Mr. Holmes!” she cried, letting me go only long enough to hold me at arm’s length for a quick appraisal, then resuming her clutch.  “I’ve been so worried! You dear, dear man!”

“Mrs. Hudson!” I exclaimed, gobsmacked by her unseemly action, “DO control yourself! There will be plenty of opportunity for you to practice your noxious arts on me, you do not need to _smother_ me now!”  Her arms _were_ rather like steel bands about my chest, after all.

Rather than return the dear woman to a state of restrained comportment, my reprimand only served to heighten her enthusiasm.  Her countenance lit up with perfect adoration and she kissed me—for the first and, I hoped, last time in our acquaintance. 

“Oh, thank God!” she shrieked, “You’re yourself again!”

Surrender seemed the better part of valor. Returning her embrace, patting her on her back in an effort to allay her hysterics, I cast a helpless look at Watson and Clarky who merely stood there, grinning like fools.

“Who else would I be?” I asked, bemused.

 

_Watson:_

The grin on my face warred with the tears in my eyes as I beheld Mrs. Hudson’s genuine relief and happiness confronted with my glowingly revitalized Holmes. A woman of great heart who prided herself on equable demeanor, she revealed in those few moments more of her affection for her fractious lodger than she had in all the last dozen years.

Holmes, for all that he vociferously protested the attention was profoundly touched by her expression of it.

I reached past the pair of them intent on drawing Clarky into the room.  We shook hands at first, then impulsively, I drew our good friend into an embrace which the excellent man returned warmly.

“Watson!”  Holmes hissed sotto voce, “_help_? ” Then louder, “Mrs. Hudson, you are causing me to be rude to Friend Clark! Perhaps you could transfer your enthusiasm to Dr. Watson for a few moments?”

I laughed out loud at that and held my arms open to our landlady, who, with a playful slap at Holmes’s shoulder, separated herself from him and entered my embrace.

We both watched as Holmes and Clark clasped each other close then regarded each other at arm’s length.

“So good to see you looking so well, sir!” Clark spoke with glistening eyes.

“You played for me at Pall Mall,” Holmes said suddenly as though just remembering the fact, which was probably precisely the case. “Thank you, Clarky, that truly was the first step on a long road back.  You’ve brought your violin, I trust?”

“I have sir!”

“Superb! We shall play together! Perhaps after dinner if you are not too tired from travelling with an emotionally overwrought _woman_.”  At this, Holmes rather charmingly took all the bite out of the assessment by glancing at Mrs. Hudson with the greatest fondness.

“It would be my greatest pleasure, sir!” Clark’s smile nearly split his face.

We drew our friends and companions from those dreadful days in Switzerland into the room and spent the next minutes catching up.

Mycroft, having forbidden both of them to come out to Chichester until after Holmes was improved, had nonetheless kept the pair apprised of his  brother’s condition.  He had even wired a report of my collapse.

“Too thin, the pair of you!” Mrs. Hudson assessed during a pause at this point in the conversation, “I shall have to have a talk with Mr. Mycroft’s Cook! She obviously doesn’t understand the care and feeding of my boys!”

It was obvious that our landlady was still rather too moved to be circumspect in her speech.  Never before had she referred to Holmes and I as “her boys”.

We—none of us menfolk—had the heart to so much as chuckle, her sentiment was so heartfelt.

Clark confided that it had been his hope to come to Chichester sooner. 

“I knew the strain you’d been under, Doctor, ever since we came back to London. I knew your health could not bear such a terrible pressure without breaking.  All respects to Mr. Mycroft, of course, but it would have been my pleasure to help however I could.”

Both Holmes and I were deeply touched. Clark had proved himself a true friend so many times over these last months, we were destined to be forever in his debt.

“I’m sure he did not wish you to be parted from your family, Clarky, you have already done so much for us, sacrificed so much.  I know that Dr. Watson joins me in expressing our profound gratitude for all that you’ve done.  You saved my life with your prompt attention at Reichenbach, helped keep me alive until Watson could come.  There are no words…” Holmes, never easy with giving voice to his more tender emotions, lapsed into a somewhat frustrated silence at his inability to continue.

“There, sir. I knew that once you two were restored to each other, that ultimately all would be right. And looking at the pair of you now is repayment enough for me. You are together and happy, I can see it. That is all that matters.”  Clark leaned forward, touched a hand to Holmes’s knee and beamed at me.

Mrs. Hudson, sitting next to me, squeezed my arm.  “Finally saw sense, the pair of you! I realized you two belonged together from the first minute you crossed my threshold at 221B!”  She whispered.

Only the knock upon the library door prevented all four of us from giving in to the moisture gathering in our eyes.

 

_Mycroft:_

We made for a very merry dinner party, my abashed brother and his radiant Dr. Watson, Friend Clarky and Mrs. Hudson.  Our good mood was infectious, Cook was delighted that after too long she was laboring for people with hearty appetites, my normally somewhat dour butler came in and out of the dining room with a wide smile on his face.

“I must return to London and Whitehall by the end of the week,” I announced as the dishes were cleared from the table. “You all shall remain here for as long as you like.  You have only to appear at the station in Chichester,  Mrs. Hudson and Clark, to claim your return tickets. All has been taken care of.”

Clark and Hudson murmured their thanks.

“It will be a relief, I am sure, to return to your established routine.”  Sherlock opined, a gleam in his eye.

“You have no idea, Brother!” I rejoined. “I've had fifteen years and a stone taken off my life and girth this summer as it is.  More plum duff!”  I ordered the staff as they prepared to leave the room.

“A second helping of dessert?  Brother! If you aren't careful you'll regain everything you've lost!”

In one sense, I already had, my brother was restored to me, in near perfect health and happiness.  I could wish no better.  I could not betray my reputation as an emotionless curmudgeon, however, so instead I said:

“With relish!  Unlike you, I am not made to exist on air and water alone!"

The room erupted in playful laughter. 

“I do find that I am faced with a mystery, one which I cannot seem to solve?” Sherlock announced once the hilarity died back down.

The surprise in the room that the Great Detective had finally faced the unsolvable puzzle was palpable, piqued everyone’s immediate interest and stymied all response.

 “I find myself rather in debt—of the monetary sort—to parties unknown,” Sherlock continued, gesturing to the violin cases that rested side by side on the now cleared sideboard, having been brought in by the staff at my brother’s request. “I sold my Stradivarius before leaving London in pursuit of Moriarty, receiving in excess of 500 guineas.  And yet, Mrs. Hudson was able to bring the very instrument to me in Leukerbad.  I shall write you a checque, good lady, to cover your out of pocket expense.”  Good as his word, my brother withdrew the very object from a coat pocket.

“Oh no! Mr. Holmes!  It isn’t me you owe for its recovery,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. “I merely brought it to you.  It was delivered to Baker Street a week or two before I received the telegram from your brother requesting that I come to Switzerland.”

My brother looked genuinely bemused, turning his attention to me. “Mycroft?”

I put my hands up.  “Do not look at me, brother.  I was delighted that the instrument had been conveyed to Mrs. Hudson’s hands, but I did not fund its retrieval.” 

This was true. I had not spent a penny of my own funds towards that end.

“Then who shall I make the checque out to?”  Sherlock looked thoroughly befuddled.

“I can only tell you who _brought_ the violin, Mr. Holmes. And he doing so at the request of another.”  Mrs. Hudson offered somewhat timorously, quite uncharacteristically so.  She glanced at me, imploringly.

I nodded to her to go on.

“The First Lord of the Treasury.”  Mrs. Hudson glanced down at her hands.

“Gladstone?!”  Sherlock fairly shouted, causing the canine Gladstone to surge up towards his master from under the table where he’d been digesting his scraps.

“Of course not Brother, he’s only just been elected.  Prime Minister Salisbury would have been incumbent at the time in question.”

“Yes. It isn’t every day that I open the door and find a sitting Prime Minister on the other side of it.” Our landlady elucidated.

“And he was delivering a mere musical instrument? This is outside of enough, cease your pranking!  To whom do I owe 500 guineas?”

With perfect equanimity,  I answered.

“Her Majesty. Technically.  I do believe it impolitic to offer her a checque, however. She would most definitely not be amused.”

Sherlock’s eyes were round as saucers, and he was rendered so pale, that Dr. Watson, in some alarm, was reaching for his wrist to gauge his pulse.

I hastened to explain.

“You performed an invaluable service—two in fact – in bringing an end to Blackwood’s reign of terror, and putting period to Moriarty’s nefarious activities. As well as retrieving that rather vital part of the former’s infernal machine from the latter.  Her Highness was most appreciative.  And most distressed to learn of your subsequent injury and illness.  She intended –and yet intends, a knighthood has been mentioned to go along with your emerald tie pin – to compensate you handsomely for favors done the Crown. This she said was the first of many rewards to be granted. I cannot promise all such will be transported by the Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury however.  A knighthood she would have to bestow in person, I believe.”

“And how does a Queen know of a pawned Stradivarius?”  My brother asked in a somewhat weak voice, but with a glint of suspicion in his eye.

“That, my dearest boy, might ever remain a mystery.” 

 

I watched as resignedly, Sherlock slipped his checquebook back in his pocket

**

_Sherlock Holmes:_

It took me some moments to recover from my shock at the revelations of the  recovered Stradivarius. 

Gesturing Clarky to take both instruments and Mrs. Hudson to the study where we intended to play, and urging Watson after them, I arranged to be alone with my brother for a few minutes.

He was eyeing me owlishly as he rose ponderously from his chair at head of table.

With careful deliberation I played to his fears, moving slowly closer to him. When I was within touching range, I pounced.

“Sherlock!” my brother huffed in surprise as he was enfolded in a bear hug.

“I don’t believe, dearest Mycroft,”  I said, “that I have ever said thank you for all you have done.  For myself and for Watson.”

“There is no need, dear boy, I am your brother, I have ever wanted you to be happy.”  My brother responded; quite tenderly, even as he struggled a bit with my physical expression of my sudden burst of affection.

“I am Brother. Beyond happy. Transported.  There is another thing I’ve neglected to tell you.” 

I stood on tiptoe and kissed my brother.  “I love you.” I confessed.

I don’t believe I have witnessed in the entirety of my existence  my elder sibling blush as furiously as he did in that moment.  Nor seen the expression on his face so soft, or his eyes glisten so brightly.

After a full minute of mutual, affectionate regard, he spoke. “Oh, well, yes, I love you too.  Really. You can let go now."

We both regained our dignity and repaired, arm in arm, to where the others awaited us.

 

A bottle and five glasses sat on a tray on a low table as we entered the room.

“I believe we neglected t tell you, brother, that a certain person of your acquaintance recently made a bequest to you.  You were too ill at the time it was transfered and we were far too distracted in the weeks since to rectify that ovesight.”

Mycroft picked up the bottle and a card and handed both to me.

“A comet vintage.” I murmured as I opened the card.

 

_“For old time’s sake._

_Love,_

_I.A.”_

 

I became aware that all others in the room were regarding me with concern, as though afraid of my reaction.  Given the  unfortunate effect my first knowledge of this very inheritance upon my fragile condition at the time this was certainly understandable.

I had never wished her dead, but she had played dangerous games, underestimating her own vulnerability to fatal danger time and again.  She would ever be “the _Woman_”, too far ahead of her time for her own good. Whose weak spot was fated to be the one being on earth immune to her charms. For the simple reason his heart had already been engaged, a dozen years before in a dissecting room at St. Bart’s.

“You’ve tested the contents for aenesthetising agents, I trust?  The last time I partook of that particular vintage, I ended up in handcuffs. Naked.”  I said with a smile and a wry glance at Clarky.

The atmosphere in the room relaxed significantly, four held breaths releasing themselves in relieved sighs.

“Oh yes. No effect on the chickens, the lambs or the stable dog.  We should all be quite safe.”

I gestured my brother do the honors.

Five glasses were filled, and raised for a toast.  I looked to Mycroft to lead it; he deferred to me. 

“To departed friends and defeated enemies.”

“Here, here.”  Four voices responded.

I raised my glass yet again and looked across the room, catching my beloved Watson’s gaze and holding it, commanding his complete understanding.

"To Mary.  May she rest in peace.  And to… possibilities. "

Watson’s eyes communicated his acceptance of my meaning. He raised his glass in response and echoed my pledge.

“To possibilities.”

 

***

 

_“We did not know it then, but it would take three years, two deaths  
and one resurrection to bring it about”_

_Mycroft Holmes, “Fragility” Chapter 8_

 

~~fin~~


End file.
